Whumptober '17
by Aggie2011
Summary: 31 oneshots based on the Whumptober prompt list on tumblr. All around 1000 words give or take a few hundred. If you know me, you know these will mostly be about Aramis. But I'm also branching out and beating up the rest of the boys too. So there's that.
1. On Their Knees

_This is the first of 31 one shots based on the Whumptober prompt list as part of Inktober over on tumblr. Anyway, these will all be around 1000 words give or take a few hundred. I have some catching up to do so expect to see a couple of these a day through the end of the month. They're unbeta'd and just for fun so forgive any mistakes and just enjoy the whump :) I'm doing this for two different fandoms so be patient :)_

 _PS - I don't own the Musketeers...do I still even need to say that?_

 _Oh and the prompt for this one was "On their knees"_

* * *

"On your knees!"

Porthos instead held his back even straighter, lifting his chin and rolling his shoulders back defiantly. Hands pushed against his back, attempting to force him down, but he held firm, letting loose a low growl in response.

A cane cracked against his thigh and he grimaced, but didn't falter.

"I said _on your knees,_ slave!"

"I'm no slave," Porthos shot back sharply. "And I kneel for no man."

"Then you're the worst kind of slave," the man taunted, glaring across the small space between them. "One that doesn't know its place." He jerked his chin at the men holding Porthos.

A blow landed solidly against the small of his back and another against his ribs. While he was still reeling from the sudden onslaught, a boot slammed into the back of his knee, forcing the joint to fold. His knee hit the dirt.

Porthos gritted his teeth and pushed back up.

More blows landed and the next time he fell, both knees slammed into the ground and he had to throw a hand out to catch himself. He spit blood into the dirt and drew in a steadying breath.

Then he slowly pushed himself up again, not stopping until his feet were under him once again.

He stared defiantly at the slave trader and wondered if he was taking this all a bit too far.

His job had been to infiltrate the group of slave traders that was abducting men from various port cities. He was to allow himself to be taken and his brothers would track them to the leader. Hopefully they were watching even now. He could imagine Athos was likely having to physically restrain Aramis at this point. Had perhaps even had to prevent him opening fire at least twice by now. He could imagine the colorfully worded rant Aramis would be muttering under his breath, likely in Spanish just to annoy Athos since he didn't know the language.

The thought made Porthos smile.

He just had to get them to reveal their leader, and then his over-protective, lethally dangerous brother could be unleashed on these vile men.

Perhaps he should be a bit more submissive. In fact, he knew he should be. But a deeply rooted piece of his soul rebelled against the very thought of kneeling before these men. He had only knelt to one man in his life, the king of France. He had done that by choice, as a Musketeer and a loyal soldier. No man should ever be _made_ to kneel. Just as no man should ever be _made_ to serve. These men lived to steal that right from men, to force them inter servitude and demand submission.

 _No_.

He could not bring himself to kneel, not to men like this. Not even for the sake of the mission.

Instead, he lifted his chin and glared.

"Get the boss," one of the men snapped. "He'll enjoy breaking this one himself."

 _Finally_.

The minutes it took them to summon their leader felt like hours to Porthos as body ached and fiercely protested the rigid posture he had demanded of it. But then, mercifully, a new figure approached, flanked by several men.

"I hear we've got a stubborn one," the man commented as he came to stand in front of Porthos. He didn't even look him in the eye. It was as if Porthos didn't even exist. The man lifted his chin, appearing both superior and confident. "Pride cometh before the fall," he chastised imperiously.

Porthos was ready for the blow, but even so it sent him to the ground. He tasted blood and over the ringing of his ears he heard an explosion of sound. He smiled around bloody teeth and wearily rolled onto his back, watching as bodies fell around him. The man who had hit him in the back dropped with a musket ball placed neatly into the back of his head. The man who had first ordered he abuse fell with a ball through the eye.

Then there was a shadow swooping over him like some sort of avenging angel, sword dancing through the air and deadly intent clearly shining in dark brown eyes. Some people believed that God watched over them. Porthos wasn't so certain about that, but he knew without doubt that his brothers always would.

Aramis glided around him, somehow guarding him from every angle without seeming like he was even trying that hard.

Athos was focused more intently on getting to the leader.

Before long, it was all over. Athos had the leader at sword point and Aramis had dispatched anyone that hadn't had the sense to flee.

Porthos hadn't bothered to move from his sprawled position on the surprisingly comfortable ground. He offered a bloody smile in greeting when Aramis leaned over him and was not surprised in the least by the blatant worry and anxiousness in his brother's eyes.

For someone who hated to be fussed over, Aramis was the _worst_ about worrying over the rest of them.

"No permanent damage," Porthos assured, taking the hand Aramis offered him and allowing the marksman to slowly pull him to sitting.

"What, may I ask, were you _thinking_?" Aramis demanded even as his hands started gently checking over Porthos' various visible injuries.

"Was just stalling for time… Trying to draw out the leader."

Aramis paused his ministrations and glared at him. Porthos hadn't quite expected that lie to work.

"No man should ever me _made_ to kneel," Porthos explained simply, but firmly.

Understanding softened the hard lines of anxious worry on Aramis' face and he reached out to lightly grip the side of Porthos' neck.

"And no man will ever be made to by his hand again," Aramis tilted his head towards the slave trader whom Athos was securing with a set of metal manacles. "Thanks to you."

"You mean thanks to Athos," Porthos shot back with a grin as Aramis went back to tending his wounds. "How many times did he have to hold you back from destroying the whole plan?"

Aramis huffed in offense.

"I was perfectly composed!"

"I had to physically hold you behind our cover and threaten to steal your pistols while you slept, and all the while you were cursing under your breath in Spanish, Latin and _Italian_ ," Athos interjected as he dragged the slave trader over to them.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian," Porthos commented in surprise.

Aramis met his eyes with a wolfish grin.

"I only know the fun words."

Porthos dropped his head back and laughed.

* * *

 _I'm usually one to beat up on Aramis so this was an interesting change for me. More soon!_


	2. Bag Over Head

_The prompt for this one was "Bag over head"_

* * *

Athos woke with a start, blinking rapidly at the musty darkness surrounding him. His brow drew together and he frowned. It wasn't a natural darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he could see a faint cross-weaving of fabric before him. He could feel his own heavy breaths rebounding against the cloth back into his face.

A metallic clinking of chains drew his attention to the world beyond himself and he stiffened, the chains around his own limbs rustled in response.

"Who's there?" a familiar voice demanded gruffly.

"Porthos," Athos realized with a relieved sigh.

"Athos?"

"I assume that to mean you're in the same state that I am."

"With a bloody _bag_ over my head? Yeah."

Athos sighed, straining his eyes to try and make out any shapes beyond the fabric, but to no avail. He heard more rustling of chains and tilted his head, trying to determine if it had come from where he now knew Porthos was.

"Aramis?" he guessed hopefully.

"No, that was me," Porthos admitted. "'Mis! You here?" the larger man barked out, the gruff tone doing little to hide the obvious worry folded into it.

There was no response.

"Feel around you. See if you can find him," Athos instructed. If Aramis was here and wasn't responding, that could mean nothing good.

He moved his hands blindly around his general area, reaching as far as the chain that tethered him to the wall would allow. He came across nothing but pieces of straw and dirt. He heard Porthos performing a similar search.

"Anything?" Athos asked abruptly, impatient to know his progress and growing more irritated at his lack of sight by the moment.

"Nothing… Wait!" There was a louder clanking of chains and then Porthos spoke again. "Aramis! Wake up!"

"Did you find him?" Athos demanded urgently.

"Unless there's another man chained up in here wearing the same mud caked boots 'Mis was complaining about this morning. Aramis!" More rattling of chains.

"Is he moving?" Athos asked.

"How the bloody hell would I know?"

"Well I can't tell one chain rattling from the next," Athos replied sharply.

"I can only reach his boot, I'm trying to…" more rattling. "Bloody hell, Aramis, if you don't wake up and say something I'm going to shake your bloody foot off!" the rattling intensified.

Finally a groan rose from somewhere beyond Porthos.

"That's it," Porthos voice immediately gentled, "follow me back."

Athos shifted forward as far as his chains would allow, head turned so he could listen more intently.

" _¿Qué?…"_ _(What?...)_

There was a sudden loud jostling of chains and Porthos grunted in pain.

"Aramis! Calm down! There's a bag over your head, but we're both here with you!" Athos barked out, realizing belatedly that perhaps _yelling_ at him wasn't helpful. But he had yet to master the ability to scold an injured, obstinate Aramis in a soothing, comforting tone as Porthos so often did.

The space around them went silent save for the sound of their combined breathing. Then, there was rustling again and the sound of dry heaving. Athos never thought he'd be so happy that they'd not eaten in almost an entire day. Aramis had nothing in his stomach to vomit out. With the bags secured around their heads, such a thing could have been deadly.

They could only listen helplessly until Aramis got his body's rebellion under control. The reaction wasn't surprising, Aramis never tolerated head injuries, even minor ones, very well.

When Aramis remained silent for several moments more, Athos frowned.

"'Mis?" Porthos sounded equally concerned.

Finally, Aramis spoke.

"Are you both alright?"

The question itself came as no surprise. Aramis, despite being notoriously poor at looking after his own health, was always quick to look after theirs. But there was something in his voice, something familiar and entirely unwelcome.

"You're injured," Porthos accused, stealing the words before Athos could speak them himself.

"I'm not," came the quick and steady denial.

"Don't lie to us," Athos snapped. "It's insulting."

There was another beat of silence and then a heavy, weary sigh.

"How did you know?" Aramis asked in resignation, though his voice remained strong and even.

"It's surprisingly easy to spot the lie in your voice when you can't use your face to sell it," Athos explained.

"The lie in my voice?" Aramis questioned with a chuckle that cut off abruptly.

"It goes hard and too steady," Porthos explained softly, heavy worry weighing down the words. He spoke as if this were something he had contemplated too many times over the years.

Aramis fell silent at that.

"So?" Athos prodded. "Your injury?"

"Perhaps a broken rib or two," the marksman answered flippantly.

" _Perhaps_?" Porthos growled.

"Well I can't see through my skin to the bone, now can I? And it's hard to feel with my hands _chained_." There was an intentional rustling of chains and Athos could easily picture Aramis' look of irritation. "What happened anyway? Where are we?"

It was a blatant attempt to redirect their attention.

"You know as much as we do," Athos replied with a shrug he belatedly realized neither of them could see.

"Well…" Aramis hedged. "It's a bit fuzzy…"

Athos closed his eyes and sighed deeply. How had he forgotten that Aramis had been _unconscious_ for several minutes longer than they had and extremely difficult to rouse.

"How badly did you hit your head?" Porthos demanded.

" _I_ didn't hit it. _They_ did."

"Aramis!" Athos scolded.

"I don't know. _Hard_ ," Aramis snapped back.

They all fumed silently for a moment, but as was usual, their irritation with each other passed quickly.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked quietly.

Aramis sighed. He had always been helpless in the face of Porthos' warm concern.

"I'm not mixing up languages," he pointed out more calmly.

Athos felt some tension leave him. That was always a glaring indicator when Aramis was hurt seriously. His mind's way of admitting to injury when the man himself refused to.

"Now that we've determined I'm not dying," Aramis went on cheerfully. Athos was sure if he could clap his hands together and smile gleefully he _would_. "What's the plan for getting out of here?"

* * *

 _I returned to my roots - beating up Aramis. I can't help myself. More tomorrow!_


	3. Jail Cell

_the prompt for this one was "Jail Cell"_

* * *

"Remind me…when we get out of this…to _kill them all_ ," Aramis stated around labored gasps for air.

"Save your breath, 'Mis," Porthos instructed lowly, groaning as he straightened as much as he could from where he was squatting. He glanced over at the marksman, wincing in sympathy. Aramis' bound hands were pulled straight up and secured to a chain. The slack had been pulled out just enough that the tips of his boots _barely_ grazed the floor. But it wasn't enough to take the pressure off his shoulders or his bruised ribs.

Porthos was only a little better off. His tethered hands were attached to a narrow metal rod that stuck straight up from the ground. The height was such that he couldn't stand up straight, but neither could he complete sit. He had been alternating between standing hunched over or resting in a squat.

"I'll kill them for you," Athos volunteered dourly. "Slowly and _very_ painfully."

Aramis replied with a breathy chuckle.

Athos was trapped on the ground. His bound hands chained flush with the stone floor. He couldn't stand or even sit up straight. He was stuck in a hunched, seated position.

"Who…even _has_ …a cell like this?" Aramis wondered bitterly.

"Save your breath," Porthos reminded again.

Aramis obediently fell silent, but the sound of his labored breathing filled the cell.

Porthos forced himself to look away from Aramis' clenched eyes and tense face. He glanced at Athos, unsurprised to see him watching Aramis with similar concern. Since the sight did nothing to alleviate his own worry, Porthos looked through the bars that served as the fourth wall to their cell, warily watching for the return of their captor. Or perhaps hoping for it.

"Maybe if I…" Aramis trailed off and grunted.

"Aramis, what are you doing?"

Athos startled question drew Porthos' attention back to the marksman.

His eyebrows hit his hairline when he saw Aramis curling his legs upward, pulling up with his arms until he was upside down, ankles wrapped around the chain above his wrists to anchor himself.

Porthos stared open mouthed.

"Is that… Is that better?" he finally asked, confused as to the goal behind the acrobatics.

Aramis didn't answer. He had curled his body up even further and was staring at something near his hands as he gently swung back and forth.

"Aramis?" Athos called sharply.

"I think I can…" Aramis trailed off and then grunted, straining with something they couldn't see. Then, without warning, he let loose a loud curse and fell. He landed in a heap on the floor, the now unattached chain swinging loosely above him.

Porthos moved as close as he could, which was only really a step nearer than he had been.

"Aramis? Aramis?!"

The marksman rolled onto his side with a groan.

" _Ow_."

"How did you do that?" Athos asked, looking uncharacteristically surprised by the turn of events.

"Not as carefully as I should have apparently," Aramis responded with his usual inappropriate twist of humor.

They could only watch as he slowly pulled himself off the floor. He stumbled his way over to Porthos, mostly _into_ him. Porthos wasn't convinced Aramis wasn't using Porthos to keep himself upright.

"How's your lock picking these days?" he asked as he fumbled with Porthos' doublet to access the inner pocket and retrieve the small tools Porthos used to break into rooms otherwise closed to them. Only on the king's business of course. "Not too rusty I hope," Aramis added as he pressed the tools into Porthos' hands.

Porthos grinned wolfishly and attacked the manacles on Aramis' wrists as best he could with his own wrists still trapped. He had Aramis free in a few moments and then turned the tools over to the marksman.

"Remember what I taught you," Porthos coached.

Aramis leaned in close to Porthos wrists and set to work.

Porthos watched patiently, offering advice and direction when necessary.

It took far longer than it would have if Aramis was at his best; and there were more muttered curses than there usually were when Aramis practiced the skill. But with his hands slightly shaking and his breaths still coming in unsteady gasps, Porthos was just happy Aramis had managed it at all.

Porthos rubbed at his freshly freed wrists and made his way to Athos. In short order he was free as well.

Porthos popped his back and stretched it. Then he set to work rubbing at Aramis' shoulders while Aramis massaged Athos' back to loosen the muscles that had tightened there.

Eventually they were all mostly functional again. And Porthos reached through the bars to try and pick the cell lock. He kept one ear on his brothers as they quietly talked behind him and trusted them to keep an eye on the halls.

He listened as Athos badgered Aramis into letting him see his bruised ribs to be sure it was nothing more serious. Despite Aramis' stubborn, and worrying, declarations that he had broken enough ribs to know what it felt like, eventually Athos won the argument. Porthos released a relieved breath when Athos declared – for Porthos' benefit he was sure – that it _did_ seem to be only bruises. He didn't have to see Aramis' smug 'told you' grin to know it was there.

Finally, the lock sprang free and he pushed the cell door open.

"Let's go find our hosts, shall we?" he declared with a predatory grin.

* * *

 _D'artagnan will be in one soon, I promise lol. Look for one, possible two more of these later today!_


	4. Noose

_the prompt for this one was "Noose"_

* * *

D'Artagnan was trying very hard not to panic. He told himself, with certainty, that this could not _really_ happen. The others would find him first. Of course they would.

There was absolutely no way he was going to die at the end of a rope in a town he couldn't even remember the name of.

Still, as sweat snaked down his brow, stinging his eyes and burning the cut above his eyebrow, d'Artagnan keenly felt the coarseness of the noose looped round his neck. It was getting harder, as moments quickly passed, for him to keep his faith that his brothers would get here in time.

"You don't want to do this." He tried one last time to reason with them. "I'm a Musketeer. An attack on one of the king's guard is considered treason."

"We answer to no king!" one of the men in the crowd shouted. A chorus of shouts rose in agreement.

"You'll bring my entire regiment down on you," d'Artagnan warned.

"And we'll be ready for them!" Another man shouted, raising his old rifle in the air.

D'Artagnan shook his head in exasperation.

"Hang him! Hang the Musketeer!" someone shouted.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as someone ran towards him.

"No! No! Wai-" his protest was cut off when the stool he stood on was kicked out from under him and he fell. There was a moment of terrifying silence as he dropped, then the rope caught and he jerked to a stop, the breath rushing out of him. The rope dug painfully into his neck and he came to the horrifying realization that he couldn't draw in a breath.

He kicked his legs, searching for something to stand on, but found nothing.

His vision blurred, whether from tears or something else, he couldn't say.

But then he heard the most blessed sound in the world.

The thundering of horse hooves.

D'Artagnan blinked, trying to clear his vision. Three blurry figures were rapidly approaching, all but flying down the main street towards d'Artagnan and the crowd. He realized fuzzily that they weren't _flying_ , but rather riding horses.

"Aramis!" a familiar voice bellowed tersely.

If he could have, d'Artagnan would have frowned.

His name was d'Artagnan, not Aramis. Why was Athos shouting for Aramis?

Then he saw one of the three approaching figures drop his reins and lift something else, something long and thin.

An arquebus, he realized dazedly.

Oh. _Oh_.

As his lungs burned in his chest, d'Artagnan watched Aramis sighted the shot. He wouldn't be able to make it, d'Artagnan realized. Aramis was good, maybe the best. But he was atop a moving horse and they were still so far away.

Then Aramis suddenly shouted a sharp command that d'Artagnan couldn't hear. The horse beneath him stamped to a sudden stop, shifting her body even as Aramis turned in the saddle to compensate – the arquebus never having faltered in its aim – and fired.

The rope stretched taught above d'Artagnan's head snapped and he fell.

He landed in a heap of loose limbs, coughing and gasping as he drew in as much air as he could as quickly as he could. There was more gunfire and shouting, but d'Artagnan hardly heard it. He looked up through watery eyes as a familiar horse broke through the crowd and pranced to his side.

"Esmé…" d'Artagnan murmured in dazed recognition.

Of course, only Esmé would have known exactly how to stop and turn to allow her rider the best shot with his arquebus. Familiar booted feet slid into view and then Aramis crowded in close to him.

"Are you with me?" the marksman asked gently, already loosening the knot on the noose and lifting it up and over d'Artagnan's head.

D'Artagnan could only manage a shaky nod and watched as Aramis produced his dagger and swiftly cut d'Artagnan's hands – bound behind his back – free. D'Artagnan couldn't help himself, he launched himself at the older man and hugged him fiercely.

Aramis patted his back gently.

"Nice shot," d'Artagnan croaked, voice cracking painfully.

Aramis chuckled.

"I was lucky," he insisted modestly.

D'Artagnan shook his head, pulling back and looking Aramis dead in the eye.

"Only you…" he had to pause to swallow moisture into his dry, bruised throat, "could have made that shot." He coughed, shaking his head at the fresh concern that sprouted in Aramis' eyes. "Perhaps a bit sooner next time, though."

Aramis chuckled again.

"Next time? Are you planning to make a habit of this?"

D'Artagnan grinned wearily and dropped his head forward to rest against Aramis' shoulder, suddenly feeling drained as the relief settled in. He felt a warm hand settle on the back of his neck. There had been a moment, just after he'd dropped, that he'd thought it was the end. That they wouldn't make it in time.

"We will always come for you, and each other," Aramis promised softly, somehow reading his thoughts. "Always."

* * *

 _I know some of y'all have been waiting for d'Art to get in on the action here, so there you go. Hoping for one more tonight! Thanks for reading!_


	5. Explosion

_the prompt for this one was "Explosion" and as you can see, this one got away from me a little and clocked in at 1800 words before I forced myself to stop lol_

* * *

Aramis nudged aside the curtain with his pistol, warily making his way into the next part of the room.

"Nothing here!" Porthos shouted from another room in the small house. "You?"

Aramis didn't reply right away as he moved further into the space, eyes searching. He didn't see anything immediately amiss but the back of his neck was tingling in warning and his instincts were clamoring that something was very wrong.

Loud footsteps echoed out in the hallway and then Porthos spoke from the doorway.

"Aramis?"

"I'm here," he replied distractedly as his gaze continued to roam restlessly.

There were more footsteps and then Porthos ducked through the curtain.

"Anything?" Porthos asked.

"I don't know."

Porthos eyed him curiously.

"Got that tingly feeling, do you?" he asked knowingly.

Aramis hummed a confirmation, still wandering the room. He noticed a small half sized door tucked in the corner and moved over to it. He clipped his pistol back to his belt and felt around the edges of the door, finding a space to curl his fingers around. He glanced at Porthos, who shrugged. Aramis looked back at the door and then pulled it open.

Sparks ignited at his feet, lighting up a line leading into the small closet.

Aramis stared blankly for a moment and the small barrel tucked deep inside the small space. Then his eyes widened as he realized what he was looking at. He took a startled step back.

"Porthos?" he called calmly.

"Yeah?"

Aramis turned and started urgently towards him.

"RUN!"

It spoke to Porthos trust in him that the larger man didn't hesitate to turn and rush for the door. Aramis was only a few steps behind him.

Neither of them made it before the world exploded around them.

* * *

Porthos returned to consciousness with a groan. He blinked blearily, eyes watering as the settling dust stung them.

"Bloody hell…" he mumbled as he tried to get his bearings.

Something was pressing heavily against his back, but an experimental push off the ground offered little resistance. He wriggled himself free a moment later and squinted around the dark space, trying vainly to see through the heavy layer of dust in the air.

"Aramis?" he called experimentally. When there was no immediate response, he tried again. "Aramis!" When eerie silence was all that followed, Porthos felt a stirring of panicked worry. He stumbled to his feet, heading back towards the source of the explosion. Aramis had been between him and it.

He nearly missed him. Might have walked right past him if he hadn't tripped over Aramis' boot. He stared in momentary horror at the piling of debris hiding his brother from view. Then he shook off his shock and dropped to his knees, pulling at pieces of the wooden wall that had collapsed across Aramis' back.

"Aramis!" he called worriedly. "Come on, 'Mis, answer me!" He shoved aside more debris. "Aramis!" Another piece of wood thrown aside and he could see an arm. "Aramis!" he called again, voice desperate and growing more panicked the longer he went without a response.

He heaved the largest piece of debris aside and finally had a clear view of his brother.

Aramis was sprawled on his stomach, head turned to the side, but appearing in one piece. Porthos reached out, cupping the side of his brother's neck with his hand.

"Aramis?" he called again, giving him a gentle shake. He leaned closer, spying a small pool of blood collecting under Aramis' mouth. His hair was wet with it as well, but Porthos couldn't tell where it was coming from. "Aramis, wake up!" He demanded, giving him another careful shake.

But Aramis didn't move. The only assurance Porthos had that he wasn't dead was the slight rise and fall of his back that proved he was breathing. Swallowing with a dry throat, Porthos looked Aramis over more thoroughly.

He saw it then.

The shard of wood imbedded in Aramis' back, a bit left of his spine.

Porthos let out a sharp breath, shaking hands hovering over the wound.

"I don't…" he shook his head, desperate eyes glance back at Aramis' lax face. "I don't know what to do," he whispered. He closed his eyes. "Think, Porthos… _Think._ "

Every time one of them was stabbed and the object was still inside them, Aramis always wrapped something cloth around the wound to stabilize the weapon until he was in a place where he could adequately treat the wound.

"Right then," Porthos muttered, pulling out the hem of his shirt and ripping off a large chunk. He carefully wrapped the fabric around the shard of wood and then sat back on his haunches.

 _Now what?_

Porthos looked around, squinting through the dust to see if he could find a way out. The building hadn't collapsed on them, which was the only reason they were still alive. But walls had blown out and the structure seemed one wrong move away from falling in on itself. He had to get Aramis out of here.

"Okay…okay…I'll get you up and get us out of here," he assured to his unconscious friend.

First, he carefully took hold of Aramis shoulder, slowly rolling him onto his side, carefully conscious of the debris in his back. He had to swallow down his worry when Aramis' head lolled lifelessly.

Porthos leaned over, pulling Aramis up and resting the marksman across his shoulders. Then Porthos pushed up on unsteady legs and started searching for a way out. He thought he saw a bit of sunlight cutting through the dust and made for it.

He was still a few steps away when he heard shouting - a familiar, if not a little uncharacteristically panicked, voice.

"Aramis?! Porthos?!"

"Athos!" he shouted back, nearly overcome with relief. He took the last few steps to the hole in the wall and peered through it. Athos appeared suddenly on the other side. The swordsman's eyes widened when he saw Aramis hanging limply across Porthos' shoulders.

"He's alive," Porthos assured. "But he hit his head and he's got a shard in his back."

Athos' nodded grimly.

"Step back," he instructed. "When we get the opening large enough, be prepared to move quickly. The whole house is ready to collapse."

Porthos nodded and retreated a few steps. He glanced sideways to where Aramis' head hung limply next to his and watched in heightening concern as blood dripped from Aramis' face to the ground.

"Athos! Hurry!" he shouted without taking his eyes off his brother's lax face.

"Alright! Be ready!" Athos shouted back from outside.

There was a thud then a creaking sound. Then the sunlight suddenly spilled in over a larger area as some of the wall was torn away.

"Now, Porthos!"

Porthos ran for the light.

Hands caught him as he careened out of the building and he was hustled away as the house groaned behind them. They all paused and looked back when the building finally collapsed in on itself.

For several moments, Porthos could only stare at the place that could have easily been his grave and that of his dearest friend.

A groan from Aramis drew Porthos back to himself and he glanced at the marksman's face, but his features were still lax.

"Here, let us take him," a familiar voice spoke from Porthos' side. Even though he recognized it as d'Artagnan's, Porthos still jerked away, denying the younger man access to Aramis. It was instinctive, and protective, and entirely irrational but he couldn't stop himself.

"Easy," Athos spoke up, appearing in front of him. He held up a calming hand. "It's just us. We wouldn't hurt him, you know that. Let us help."

Porthos shook his head to clear it, taking in ragged breaths.

"Sorry," he offered, allowing them to come closer and help him ease Aramis to the ground. Athos caught his head and gently rested it in his own lap while Porthos carefully made sure the wound on his back was stable and d'Artagnan worked to arrange Aramis' limbs comfortably.

"Try to rouse him," Athos instructed. "He'll hear you before he'd hear either of us."

Porthos swallowed, trying to work some moisture into his dry throat and then leaned over Aramis, lightly cupping his neck and giving him a careful shake.

"Aramis," he called firmly. "Come on, brother, stop being so dramatic. You're scaring the pup."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

Aramis remained unresponsive.

Porthos licked his lips and lowered his voice.

"For what it's worth you're scaring me 'n Athos too. And you know how much we hate that."

For a long moment, it didn't seem to work. Aramis didn't move or even twitch.

"Come on, 'Mis…wake up," Porthos pleaded quietly.

Finally, Aramis' eyes fluttered.

"That's it," Porthos praised the progress, relief coloring his tone.

Aramis' eye opened more fully and his gaze rolled around drunkenly before finally settling on Porthos.

"There you are," Porthos greeted, feeling weak with relief.

Aramis blinked at him and then raised a shaking hand to point at Porthos' head.

" _Estas sangrado," (You're bleeding,)_ the marksman pointed out a bit dazedly, dark eyes full of concern.

Porthos stared at him, momentarily dumfounded. Then he glanced at d'Artagnan. It had been established some time ago, much to their surprise, that d'Artagnan knew enough Spanish from growing up in Southern France that he could often be counted on to translate Aramis' mumblings.

The young Gascon cleared his throat.

"He said, 'You're bleeding.'"

Porthos dramatically rolled his eyes and looked back at Aramis.

"You're one to talk," he accused lightly, grinning and shaking his head in exasperation. "I'm not the one doing an expert impersonation of a swooning damsel."

Aramis' lips quirked and when he blinked, his eyes were clearer.

"Well Athos makes such a fine…" he frowned, waving his hand in frustration, " _almohada?"_ He looked to d'Artagnan.

"Pillow," the younger man supplied with a smug grin at Athos.

Aramis snapped his fingers and pointed at d'Artagnan's chest.

"Yes _that_ …bloody headwounds… Anyway, I wouldn't want to waste the opportunity."

Said 'pillow' rolled his eyes, only to grimace when Aramis clamped his mouth and eyes shut, suddenly looking green.

"Ah, here it comes," d'Artagnan announced as if he'd been anticipating this moment.

Between the three of them, they carefully supported Aramis while his breakfast made an unsightly reappearance. When he was done, Aramis eased more fully onto Athos' lap.

"Why does my back hurt?" he wondered with a scowl.

"Well, you've got a shard of wood sticking out of it," Porthos explained bluntly.

Aramis' eyes widened fractionally in surprise.

"Yes, I suppose that would explain it," he replied simply.

He arched an irritated brow when all three of them shook their heads in exasperation.

"That was impressively synchronized. Did the three of you plan that?" he asked sourly.

"Well we've had enough practice when it comes to you," d'Artagnan quipped.

Aramis fixed him with a look of aghast disbelief.

"You wound me."

"Look at that! Aramis admitting to a wound. I'm shocked!" d'Artagnan teased further.

Aramis scowled at him.

"I'm not _that_ bad," he defended.

"Yes, you _are_!" It was hard to say which of them offered the firm reply more loudly, since all three of them said it in perfect harmony.

* * *

 _This one kept getting longer and longer...i think it wanted to be its own fic. But I finally wrestled it into submission. Because it's so long, I didn't have time to write another one today, though. But more tomorrow!_


	6. Broken Bone

_the prompt for this one was "Broken bone"_

* * *

"I don't want to do this."

"Unfortunately, we've no other option," Aramis replied steadily.

Porthos swallowed thickly, eyes pinned on the odd lump under the skin of Aramis' arm. When he noticed the fingers of that arm trembling, he shifted his gaze up to Aramis' face. The marksman's jaw was set in a hard line, a muscle in its base flexing every now and then as he repeatedly clenched his teeth. But there was no other indication of pain in his expression, not that Porthos expected one. Aramis had learned to hide such things long before the Musketeers.

"I'll do it wrong," Porthos warned, forcing his eyes away from Aramis' steady expression and back to his misshapen arm.

"Porthos, I'll guide you through it. But it _must_ be done, do you understand?" Aramis' voice had taken on a harder edge – another small slip that gave away the pain he was in. He took a visible breath and when he spoke again, his voice had returned to normal. "The pain will be less if you set it."

Porthos snapped his eyes up to Aramis'.

"Really?"

Aramis jaw clenched again as he glared at him, his patience for Porthos' hesitation finally gone.

"Porthos, enough! The longer it goes untended, the worse it will get. Now stop complaining and just do as I say!"

Porthos felt ill at the whole idea, but reluctantly nodded.

"What do I do?" he asked in resignation.

Aramis released a sharp breath, posture loosening slightly at his capitulation.

"Think of a broken branch on a tree or bush," he explained. "When we're tracking someone through the woods, we look for such things, yes?"

Porthos nodded, his mind conjuring the image.

"This is not unlike that. To fix one of those branches, you have to straighten it and bring the broken pieces back together."

Porthos nodded again. Aramis met his eyes steadily.

"My arm is the branch."

Porthos drew in a deep breath and nodded once more.

"Hold on here and here." Aramis used his uninjured hand to place Porthos'. "And remember, you can't fumble about with broken bones. You must move with purpose."

"I just straighten it out?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded.

"Do so _quickly_ and _firmly_. Neither of us wants you to have to try a second time."

The thought of _that_ made Porthos' stomach turn.

"Ready?" he asked.

Aramis merely jerked his head once in affirmation. Then, as Porthos watched, Aramis retreated behind his mental walls, ready ignore the pain – to pretend it wasn't there. Even Porthos could admit the stoicism was useful on the battlefield, but it had no place here. It was just the two of them. There was no one here that Aramis needed to impress or please.

"Don't do that," Porthos snapped.

Aramis gave him a startled glance and then immediately scowled when he realized what Porthos was calling him out about.

"He's not here," Porthos pointed out sharply. "He's not _been_ here for years."

Aramis lifted his chin defensively and Porthos sighed.

"I only mean that _I_ won't think any less of you for allowing yourself to feel the pain of this."

He saw Aramis battle with himself for several moments before something in his brother's expression softened.

"I know how much you hate it," Aramis allowed. "For you, I'll try."

"That's all I ask." He tightened his grip on Aramis' arm. "Ready?" he asked again.

Aramis nodded tightly.

Porthos drew in a breath, steeled himself, and then sharply forced the bone back into place.

Aramis let out a half-keening grunt and his free hand shot out, wrapping so tightly around Porthos' shoulder that it was sure to leave a bruise. The marksman let out a stuttered, gasping breath and nearly wilted right there.

Porthos swiftly moved to support him and Aramis allowed it. The marksman tucked his wounded arm against his abdomen and dropped his forehead against Porthos' shoulder.

"You did well, Porthos," Aramis mumbled lowly. "Better than my first time setting a bone."

"Thank you for trusting me enough to let your guard down," Porthos replied sincerely.

Aramis drew back, meeting his eyes seriously.

"Porthos, don't you know?"

Porthos shook his head in confusion.

"I trust _you_ more than anyone. There is very little that you can ask of me that I will not then try to do."

Warmed by the words, Porthos smiled.

"In that case, I'm asking you to never get injured again."

Aramis cocked an eyebrow, grinning.

"A tall order."

"You said you'd try to do anything I asked of you," Porthos reminded.

Aramis chuckled and squeezed his shoulder.

"Porthos, for you? Anything."

* * *

 _I felt like this one fought me...idk how I feel about it lol. Also, today was insane and I only had time for one of these. But more tomorrow!_


	7. Guilt

_The prompt for this one was "Guilt" This one, too, got away from me and is over 2k words...oops._

 _Also, it's my first attempt at a modern AU so there's that._

* * *

" _Do you have a shot?"_

Aramis lifted his head from where he was looking through the scope of his rifle, narrowing his eyes at the scene before him. He hoped that perhaps he had misread the situation, but it appeared the same as it had through the scope. He lowered his head again, focusing on the magnified image.

" _Diablo, do you have a shot?"_ Athos demanded over their comms.

"Negative. It's not clean," he replied without taking his eyes off the scene playing out down on the docks.

He watched their target press his gun more firmly against the underside of Porthos' chin. Usually Porthos bulk was an asset, but right now it only served to completely shield the man Aramis wanted very badly to shoot.

" _Retriever, what about you?"_

Aramis waited hopefully as d'Artagnan's voice crackled across the comms a moment later.

" _Negative. I don't have the angle. And we've got to talk about that code name. If he gets to be something badass like Diablo, I don't want to be named for a dog."_

"Would you prefer Chihuahua?" Aramis asked with a grin, unable to help himself despite the circumstances.

" _ **No**_ _,"_ d'Artagnan denied fiercely.

"How about Labrador?"

" _Shut up, Diablo."_

"Labradoodle?"

" _That's enough. Diablo, take the shot."_ Athos' command broke through the moment of lighthearted teasing.

Aramis frowned, never taking his eyes off Porthos or the man holding him captive.

"I told you, it's not clean. Outlaw is-"

" _Outlaw is concussed. He's not getting himself out of this, so_ _ **you**_ _need to. Take the shot."_

"Give him a moment to regain his senses and he'll give me an opening."

" _The target is two steps from that boat. If he gets Outlaw on it, he's dead."_

"But-"

" _You see the situation, Diablo. You're behind the gun. Make the call."_

Aramis swallowed and licked his lips, watching a dazed Porthos be pulled back towards the boat.

"Come on, Porthos…" he whispered softly, adjusting his aim.

The target pulled Porthos a step closer to the boat and the driver revved the engine.

Aramis was out of time.

" _Perdóname hermano." (Forgive me brother.)_

He squeezed the trigger. He watched blood explode from Porthos' shoulder and then both he and the man holding him crumpled to the ground. He watched, still covering Porthos, until Athos ran out onto the docks and the boat sped away.

Only then did Aramis lifted his head, swallowing down a wave of nausea. He rolled away from his rifle and laid on his back. He stared up at the night sky, listening to Athos rattle off more orders.

It took several moments before he realized Athos was trying to raise him on the radio.

"Is he alive?" he asked around the lump in his throat.

" _It was a clean hit. He'll be fine,"_ Athos assured.

"The target?"

" _Dead. You did we-"_

"Don't say it," he snapped, cutting off the praise. Then after taking a slow breath, he went on. "I'll find my own way back." He plucked his earpiece out and in a fit of anger sat up and threw it across the rooftop.

* * *

Athos watched the paramedics load Porthos into the ambulance and then climbed in after him.

"Where is he?" Porthos asked for the sixth time, his concussion as serious as Athos had feared.

"He'll meet us at the hospital," Athos assured once again.

He hoped it wasn't a lie. Aramis' comm had gone dead and his phone was going straight to voicemail. Aramis did this sometimes – went dark on them. Usually after a hard mission. It was only the knowledge that Aramis would never put anything, not even his own feelings, above Porthos that assured Athos that their sniper would not go to that extreme now.

"I'll follow with the SUV," d'Artagnan stated from outside the ambulance. Only after Athos nodded did he slam the door shut, pounding a hand against it to let the driver know they were ready to move.

Athos watched Porthos' gaze wander listlessly around the interior of the ambulance before finally settling back on him.

"Where's 'Mis?" he asked in bewildered confusion.

 _I don't know._

"He'll meet us there, Porthos."

* * *

Porthos woke feeling remarkably more clear-headed than he had when he'd gone to sleep. The confusing effects of his concussion were fading away and he could finally piece together a bit of what had happened.

He took a moment before opening his eyes, assessing the amount of pain he was in. Getting shot was never a good time, but as such wounds went, this one wasn't terrible. Something to credit the shooter with, he was sure.

Satisfied that his pain meds were doing their job sufficiently, Porthos opened his eyes, glancing around his hospital room. His brow drew together in confusion when the only face to greet him was that of their team's youngest.

"Where's Aramis?" Porthos asked without preamble. He couldn't remember a time he'd woken up after being injured that his closest brother wasn't there waiting for him.

D'Artagnan looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights for a moment before he schooled his expression.

"The doctor says your scans look good. And also that you shouldn't have any mobility issues once your shoulder heals."

Porthos stared at him, concern mounting when d'Artagnan nervously shifted his gaze away.

"Where is he?" he asked again, more firmly.

D'Artagnan sighed and looked back at him in resignation.

"We don't know. His phone is off and he hasn't check in."

Porthos felt a rush of cold fear from his head down to his toes. He hated it when Aramis did this. _Hated it_. He'd done it all the time after Savoy. He would disappear for hours at a time, sometimes _days_ , without a word to anyone. In those days Porthos had worried that they would find him dead, buried under the weight of 20 lost souls and having finally decided to join them.

He didn't do it as often now, but sometimes when he took a mission too hard, he would go dark again.

"Where's Athos?" Porthos demanded, gripping the bedrail and hauling himself up to sitting.

D'Artagnan's eyes went wide and he jumped up from his seat, hands hovering in midair as if he wished to push Porthos back down.

"He's out looking for Aramis."

"He won't find him," Porthos grumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "He never knows where to look."

"Yes, that's usually _your_ expertise," a voice spoke from the doorway.

Porthos twisted, glaring across the room at Athos. Their team leader looked worn and worried, but otherwise composed.

"Did you find him?" Porthos wondered hopefully, despite the claims he'd made moments before.

"Would I be here alone if I had?" Athos countered, coming farther into the room and offering d'Artagnan a steaming cup of coffee. "I've called the usual places. I had Constance check the apartment and Treville went to the Garrison. No one has seen him."

Porthos shook his head, scoffing in exasperated annoyance.

"What?" Athos challenged. "Is there somewhere else I should have looked?"

"Yeah," Porthos snapped. " _HERE."_

Athos frowned, looking uncharacteristically confused.

"He shot me, Athos. He was _forced_ to _shoot_ _me_. Do you really think he'd be _anywhere_ but here?"

Porthos watched the light in Athos' eyes spark as he realized the truth of Porthos' words. He met Porthos' gaze again.

"He's staying out of sight, but close enough to keep up with your condition," Athos theorized.

"Somewhere high," Porthos added. "With good sightlines."

"The roof," d'Artagnan suggested.

They both looked at him sharply, having forgotten he was there, then looked back at each other. Porthos made like he was going to try to stand, but Athos held up a hand.

"I'll go. He'd be furious if you came tramping up there in your condition."

Porthos hesitated and Athos sighed.

"He's my brother too, Porthos," he reminded quietly. "I've got him."

* * *

Athos was not as confident as he portrayed himself to Porthos. And as he pushed his way through the access door that lead out onto the roof, he wondered what he would say if he actually _did_ find Aramis here.

At first, it seemed that Porthos' uncanny ability to read his best friend's mind had finally failed. The roof appeared deserted. But then Athos heard a dull, repetitive thudding from the other side of the enclosed stairwell. He ventured around it and was totally unsurprised to see Aramis sitting on the edge of the half-wall, feet tapping rhythmically against the brick as he looked out over the city.

Athos wasn't worried about startling him. Aramis couldn't _be_ startled unless he was having one of his, now rare, PTSD episodes.

"He woke up and you weren't there," Athos stated bluntly. He grimaced, having come across far more accusatory than he'd intended.

Aramis' feet stopped their swinging and the sniper went absolutely, eerily still.

"I only mean to say that he wondered where you were and was worried."

He watched Aramis' head tilted slightly, but he still didn't turn to face him.

"Knowing Porthos, he knew _exactly_ where I was."

Athos rolled his eyes, unwilling to admit that it had taken Porthos thirty seconds to figure out what Athos had been unable to unravel over several hours.

"And Porthos is always worried about me. It's his default setting." Aramis added lightly.

"You should be down there with him," Athos pointed out. "What if his condition had worsened?"

Aramis held up an unfamiliar phone.

"I'm getting text updates from the beautiful, wholly unattached Nurse Jacklyn."

Athos frowned.

"That's not your phone."

"It's one of my burners."

Athos sighed deeply.

"So you're using a burner so that we couldn't find you? You're hiding from _us_ now?"

"No…" Aramis hedged slowly.

"Aramis…"

"Just you."

Athos flinched in surprise.

"Is it because I gave the order to fire?"

"But you didn't, did you? You didn't give the order," Aramis countered, turning sideways and bending a leg to rest on the top of the wall he sat on. He glared across the space between them. "' _You see the situation, Diablo. You're behind the gun. Make the call.'_ " He quoted. "You put that on _my shoulders_."

Athos shook his head sharply, taking a step forward with wide eyes.

"No, Aramis, I didn't mean… I had only hoped that you would step back and see the situation as I did. That you would see there wasn't another option. _You didn't have a choice_."

Aramis swung around completely, jumping off the wall and striding towards him. He grabbed two handfuls of Athos' leather jacket and jerked him closer.

"I shot Porthos!" he hissed. " _Porthos!"_

"You had to," Athos assured firmly. "There was no choice, Aramis."

"There is always a choice," Aramis denied with sharp shake of his head.

"Not this time," Athos argued. "If you hadn't made that shot, Porthos would be dead."

Aramis shook his head and pushed Athos away. He turned his back on him again and looked out over the skyline.

"You didn't have a choice, Aramis," Athos repeated firmly. "Porthos knows that too. In fact, I imagine he's grateful to you."

"For _shooting_ him?" Aramis scoffed derisively.

"For saving his life," Athos corrected calmly.

Aramis sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and then tangling it up into his hair.

"Come and see him," Athos requested. "If I come back without you, Porthos will just come looking for you himself and he's in no shape to do that right now."

Aramis huffed and though Athos couldn't see his face, he could imagine the sniper rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. They both knew how true Athos' words were.

Finally, he gave a reluctant nod.

* * *

Porthos sat up straighter when Athos came striding into the room. He leaned to look past him and let out a relieved breath when Aramis came reluctantly trailing behind. His brother's already unruly hair was wind-tousled and he had his hands tucked into the jean jacket he always wore layered over a gray hooded sweatshirt. He was watching Porthos warily, as if worried about how he would be received.

Porthos gave him a warm smile of greeting.

"Nice of you to turn up," he teased carefully.

Aramis watched him from the doorway for another moment before a slight grin cracked his stern expression and he drifted into the room. Athos and d'Artagnan quietly slid out to give them a moment alone.

"You know me, I hate all the waiting. I've no patience for it."

"Ah, but you've missed out on meeting my night-shift nurse. She's just your type."

"Blonde and witty?"

"Breathing," Porthos quipped with a smirk.

Aramis huffed a chuckle and rolled his eyes, shifting a few steps closer to the bed. His dark gaze was looking Porthos over, clinically assessing the bandages on his shoulder, expertly translating what the monitors were telling him, and doing everything _but_ meeting Porthos' eyes.

"I'd be dead if not for you," Porthos stated bluntly.

That did it. Aramis' eyes snapped to his.

"Thank you for what you did," he went on.

"For shooting you?" Aramis challenged with an arched brow. Porthos could see the guilt in his eyes, the self-loathing, the doubt that he'd made the right call.

"For saving me," Porthos countered, "even though it cost you."

"I'm not the one in the hospital bed," Aramis pointed out.

"I'm not talking about physical cost," Porthos replied. "I know what it costs you to squeeze that trigger. I know what it takes from you every time you have to do it. And I know that making that choice last night wasn't easy."

Aramis' eyes moistened and he looked down to hide it.

"No, it wasn't," he agreed quietly.

"I forgive you for making it," Porthos offered carefully.

Aramis eyes rose once again to meet his, looking surprised and hopeful. Whether Porthos believed Aramis needed to be forgiven or not, _Aramis_ believed he did. So Porthos would gladly give him that peace of mind.

"You do?" he asked.

"'Mis, I forgave you before you even pulled the trigger."

The tension drained out of Aramis' posture and he finally finished his agonizingly slow journey to Porthos' bedside. Porthos reached out and snagged his wrist, pulling him forward until he could properly hug him.

"You were protecting me in the only way you could," he assured firmly, before loosening his hold and allowing Aramis to retreat. The sniper merely sat on the edge of the bed, pretense of personal boundaries gone now that the air was clear.

"I hear you offered up some new code names for the pup," Porthos commented with a grin.

"Yes, he expressed dissatisfaction with the one he'd been assigned," Aramis replied with an answering smirk.

Porthos nodded.

"I liked Labradoodle."

* * *

 _Another one that kept pestering me to make it longer and longer. Oh well! Hope you don't mind haha. I can't seem to get more than one of these done on the weekdays so hopefully I can catch up on the weekend when I've got grandparents around to help watch my minions, i mean children._

 _Ps I LOVE modern AUs. I've been itching to do one and hopefully this can satisfy that itch for a while lol._


	8. Scar

_The prompt for this one was "Scar"_

* * *

When Aramis woke, squinting even from the meager light sneaking in behind their makeshift curtain, Porthos knew it was going to be a bad day. He watched Aramis slowly roll up to sitting, swinging his legs tiredly over the side of his bed. He braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Porthos watched his fingers restlessly begin to rub the old scar long since hidden behind the hair above his right ear.

"Aramis?" he called, in a voice pitched low and soft. "You alright?"

Instead of answering, Aramis' head sunk further into his hands, his right palm now pressing solidly against the scar.

"How bad is it?" Porthos asked knowingly, sure to keep his voice in a whisper. Aramis opened his mouth to answer but Porthos cut him off. "The _truth_."

Aramis squinted up at him with a weak version of a scowl.

"You know me too well, _mon frére,_ " _(my brother,)_ Aramis replied with a pinched grin.

"How bad?" Porthos asked again.

Aramis opened his mouth to reply, but was stopped this time by the door to their shared quarters banging open. The influx of the bright morning light made them both wince, but Aramis also turned his head away, pressing his hand over his eyes with a low groan.

Porthos frowned and watched Aramis' shoulders roll forward. He was off his bed and halfway across the room with the chamber pot – thankfully just emptied – before d'Artagnan had even stepped into the room.

Porthos went to a knee next to Aramis and shoved the pot under his face just in time to catch whatever Aramis heaved up. He rested his free hand across Aramis' nape and then looked over his shoulder at d'Artagnan.

"What's wrong with him?" the young Musketeer asked with wide, worried eyes.

Aramis twitched under Porthos' hand and heaved again.

"Keep your voice down," Porthos hissed softly. "Where's Athos?"

"He's down in the yard," d'Artagnan whispered back. "He sent me to rouse you two."

"Go and fetch him," Porthos instructed. "And close the door behind you."

D'Artagnan nodded hastily, eyes wide with worry, and retreated. He pulled the door closed quickly, but silently, behind him. That handled, Porthos returned his attention to Aramis. His shoulders were still rolling with heaves, but nothing was coming up anymore.

"Get it under control, 'Mis," Porthos whispered, massaging Aramis' shoulders carefully.

It took a moment, but Aramis stopped heaving. Porthos set aside the chamber pot and nudged Aramis to lay back down. He sighed in frustration when the marksman resisted.

"Lay back down. You need to try and sleep through it."

"Just…give me a moment…" Aramis muttered around carefully controlled breaths. "I'll be fine."

"Aramis, you can't even open your eyes," Porthos pointed out wearily.

Aramis huffed in frustration, but didn't try to prove Porthos wrong as he usually would when such a challenging statement was issued. He continued to sit on the edge of his bed for several moments, hunched forward with elbows braced on his knees and his head in his hands – right palm pressed to the scar. His eyes were clenched closed and his jaw was set in a hard line.

"Lay down," Porthos instructed again, more firmly this time.

Aramis hesitated.

"It's only me here," Porthos reminded.

The marksman's shoulders drooped and gave in. He blindly allowed Porthos to guide him back into his bed and rolled to face the wall, draping an arm over his head.

Porthos had just flicked the blanket back over him when the door slowly eased open, but only far enough for Athos to squeeze through. Then it was shut tightly once more.

"How bad?" Athos asked in a whisper as he moved to the single window, snagging a spare blanket out of the trunk beneath it – stored there for days like today – and proceeded to secure it over the window, casting the room into darkness.

"Seems bad," Porthos replied, concern coloring his tone. "Couldn't even make it out of bed."

"I sent d'Artagnan for cool water and rags and stopped in to inform Treville. He removed us from the duty roster for the day," Athos informed him quietly. "I'll go ask Serge to start preparing some of that soup he likes. Try to get him to sleep," Athos instructed before slipping silently out of the room.

Porthos returned to Aramis' bed and sat on the edge.

"Think you can sleep?" he asked softly.

Aramis slowly uncurled the arm from his head and peered up at Porthos through the darkness. He didn't say anything, but they'd known each other long enough that sometimes words weren't needed.

"Okay, you got it," Porthos promised. Then he turned and stretched out beside Aramis on the bed. Aramis was curled impossibly small into the wall, face hidden under an arm again. Porthos hooked his own arm behind his head and settled in to stare at the ceiling for however long he was needed.

* * *

D'Artagnan followed Athos into the room, carefully balancing his bowl of water in his hands. The room was fully dark and once they closed the door, d'Artagnan could barely see enough to move around. Athos didn't seem phased at all. He moved freely and easily throughout the room, retrieving a single candle and setting it on a small shelf in the corner of the room furthest from Aramis' bed. Once that was lit, it provided a soft, meager glow to navigate by and d'Artagnan dutifully brought the water and rags towards Porthos and Aramis.

Porthos was stretched out on his back next to Aramis, who was on his side, curled away from the room and into the wall. The big man pointed to the floor and d'Artagnan deposited his burden there. Then he retreated to the other corner where Athos had settled on the foot of Porthos' bed with a book.

D'Artagnan hovered awkwardly for a moment before Athos tilted his head toward the space on the bed next to him. Relieved, d'Artagnan clambered up to sit on the thin mattress.

For a moment they sat in silence, Athos reading and d'Artagnan watching Porthos and Aramis.

"Why is Porthos in his bed?" d'Artagnan finally asked, careful to keep his voice soft.

Athos looked up from his book, eyes settling for a moment on the other two Musketeers before he looked back down at his book.

"Aramis sleeps better with a warm body at his back."

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Because of Savoy," he realized.

Athos nodded once.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He suffered a grievous head injury in Savoy," Athos explained without looking up from the pages he was perusing. "He sometimes suffers crippling headaches because of it."

D'Artagnan nodded again.

"He showed me the scar once."

Athos looked up from the book again when they heard Porthos murmur something too softly for them to make out. Aramis shifted a bit before settling his weight back against Porthos' arm instead of curled into the wall.

D'Artagnan didn't know why Athos looked so relieved by this change.

The older man must have sensed his confusion because he looked over at him.

"What did he tell you about Savoy?" Athos asked.

"Only that they were attacked in the night and Marsac saved his life before deserting."

Athos nodded.

"That's his preferred version."

D'Artagnan frowned in confusion.

"What that version of the story fails to disclose is that he was out there, alone, for five days with twenty dead Musketeers before they found him."

"They?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Porthos, Treville, and two others that had gone to retrieve the bodies."

D'Artagnan shook his head in bewilderment.

"Why did nobody find him sooner?"

Athos sighed.

"The report said no survivors. It was assumed that he was…" Athos trailed off and shook his head. "Imagine their surprise to find him alive," he finished in a low, contemplative murmur. Then he drew in a breath and settled his gaze on the two men across the room. "As surely as Savoy left that scar on his body, it left a bigger one on his soul."

D'Artagnan watched Aramis shift again. Then Porthos leaned off the bed to wet one of the rags d'Artagnan had brought. He reached over to settle it across Aramis' forehead and then stretched back out on the bed, letting Aramis' back settle against his arm again.

"You wouldn't know it day to day," Athos surprised him by going on. But when d'Artagnan looked at him, Athos was staring across the room, gaze fixed on his brothers. "He hides it well. He needed us a lot in the beginning, but now he mostly handles the bad days well enough on his own. Sometimes, though, on the really bad ones he still needs us."

"Like today?"

Athos inclined his head.

"In a way. Today is a little different. The headaches make everything worse. They lower his defenses in more than one way and can make real rest hard to find. If we weren't here to bully him into letting us look after him, he'd try to go on about his day and just make it worse."

"So, you do this every time? The water and rags, the darkness, the waiting?"

Athos nodded.

"Many years ago, Porthos and I promised him – and swore to each other – that we would never leave him alone with these ghosts, no matter the form they took…" Athos trailed off, a frown turning down his mouth. D'Artagnan wondered if he was thinking of Marsac. A moment later, Athos answered the unspoken question. "We failed him in that once, but never again."

* * *

 _Sorry this is coming so late! The last two days have been exhausting and so very busy. More tomorrow! And so you know, as I was planning out the prompts...a HUGE chuck of them are going to be in that Modern AU I introduced you two the other day ;) I can't help myself._


	9. Self Inflicted

_The prompt for this one was "Self inflicted"_

* * *

Athos hated himself most days. He truly did. He hated himself for not protecting Thomas. He hated himself for abandoning his father's – _his_ – lands and title. He hated himself for loving Anne and then hated himself for killing her.

He drank to forget all the reasons he loathed himself.

And then loathed himself for being a drunk.

It was a vicious, destructive circle, but one he had no real desire to pull himself out of.

Not until he'd met _them_ , at least. Aramis and Porthos – two beacons of light in his dark and dreary world. Some days, their presence alone was enough to pull him out of the shadows of memory.

But some days it wasn't.

He sat now, on one such day, with a belly full of wine, pleasantly feeling nothing at all.

It was with numb regard that he watched Aramis duck into the tavern, shaking snow off his hat and bundled in his blue cloak. His brother searched the tavern with his eyes, but Athos made no effort to draw his attention.

Aramis would find him easily enough without help and Athos was in no hurry to expedite being escorted away from the wine.

He watched Aramis spot him, but still only stared.

Aramis' gaze narrowed, head tilting slightly as he studied Athos from across the room.

Then the marksman moved, but not _towards_ Athos as he expected, towards the fire burning in the hearth on the far wall instead. Athos downed the rest of his cup and watched Aramis spend several minutes hunkered close to the flames, hands outstretched to absorb the heat. Athos wondered if it was Aramis' hands that were shaking or his vision.

The snow was likely bringing up all sorts of traumatic memories for the marksman, but in his current apathetic state Athos couldn't bring himself to care. Instead, he tipped the wine bottle to pour more of the contents into his cup and waited for Aramis to make a move.

His brother was here to collect him, of that he was certain.

This ritual was a practiced one. Usually the tavern keeper waited until Athos was practically unconscious before calling in one of the others, though. So Athos was curious as to how the whole process would proceed when he still had some of his faculties in order.

"Athos?"

A hand waving in front of his face, made the swordsman blink and draw his head back. He stared, dumfounded at Aramis, who peered down at him in concern. Athos frowned, wondering when Aramis had moved.

"How much have you had?" Aramis asked, taking away the wine bottle even as Athos reached for it.

"Too much," Athos replied blandly. "And at the same time far too little."

Aramis rolled his eyes and passed the bottle off to a passing barmaid.

"I was drinking that," Athos objected, clumsily reaching after her. Aramis caught his arm with unreasonably fast reflexes and used the grip to haul him up.

"Come on, let's go."

"No," Athos objected, pushing against Aramis with his free hand and attempting valiantly to stay in his seat.

"Athos, _let's go_." Aramis pulled on him again.

Athos glared and remained stubbornly seated.

Aramis sighed, looking incredibly weary and rubbed at his eyes.

"Athos, I'm _tired_ and I'm _cold_. I want to go home. Get up or so help me, I will knock you out and carry you."

"You wouldn't dare," Athos challenged confidently. His sluggish gaze was unable to track the fist as it flew towards his face, but he felt it with perfectly clarity.

* * *

When Athos woke again, it was to find himself vomiting violently into a bucket. When he was done, a cup pressed against his lips.

He hoped for wine, but tasted water.

He spat it back out.

There was a loud, frustrated curse in what his muddled mind vaguely recognized as Spanish. Then the sound of something slamming down onto a table and a door opening and shutting sharply.

As Athos drifted back to sleep he hardly noticed the quiet click if the door opening and closing again.

* * *

The next time he woke it was morning.

He squinted against the meager light spilling in through the partially covered window and looked around. He was in his old quarters at the Garrison, a room once shared between he, Porthos and Aramis until he had sought a private apartment in the city. Aramis and Porthos both still resided here and had never bothered to have Athos' bed removed.

His mouth felt dry and a bit like something furry had died in it and his head pounded mercilessly.

Still, he forced his eyes to remain open and searched for what he knew would not be far.

Sure enough, Aramis was slouched uncomfortably in a chair near the bed. His arms were crossed over his chest and his feet crossed and propped on the edge of the mattress.

And he was staring right at him.

Athos stared back, blinking dumbly.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Aramis asked suddenly, voice scratchy and rough.

With a stirring of guilt, Athos noticed the dark circles under his brother's eyes and the exhaustion lining his posture. It had been snowing last night, Athos remembered. Less than a year after Savoy, the first snowfall of the winter had led to a resurgence of Aramis' struggles to recover from that trauma. Weeks into winter now, it had gotten a little better, but not much.

"It doesn't matter," he replied lowly, guilt and worry churning his gut as he wondered if Aramis had slept last night. And if he did, had he had nightmares? With Porthos away and Athos more or less unconscious, there would have been no one to ground him in reality.

"Maybe it matters to me," Aramis shot back. "Maybe picking you up off the floor of taverns has gotten a bit old."

The worry and guilt faded quickly in the face of the sarcastic jab.

"No one asked you to," Athos snapped.

"That's the point of _us_ : me, you, and Porthos. We don't _have_ to ask."

"If it bothers you so much, just leave me there next time."

Aramis shook his head in frustration and looked away.

"Would you leave _me_?" he asked, still turned away. "If I were drinking myself into oblivion because of Savoy, would you leave me?"

Athos frowned.

"Of course not," he answered.

Aramis finally looked back at him.

"Would you try to stop me?" he asked.

Athos knew where this was going.

"It's not the same," he insisted.

"I suppose I wouldn't know," Aramis replied flippantly. "While you know my demons, I've not even gotten a passing introduction to yours."

"I've told you," Athos defended.

"Ah yes, there was a woman and she died. How did she die?"

Athos pressed his lips together and didn't answer.

"When?" Aramis went on.

Athos remained silent.

"How long did you know her? What was her name?"

Athos looked away.

Aramis sighed and stood.

"I've volunteered for grounds patrol at the palace today. I've told Treville you took ill last night and would be a few hours delayed in your duties," he informed Athos stiffly. It wasn't until Aramis was at the door that Athos realized his brother was fully dressed, winter cloak and all. Aramis pulled the door open, but paused before stepping through.

"I'm glad you're not dead. But if you wouldn't mind waiting for Porthos to return before trying to drink yourself to death again, I would appreciate it."

Then he was gone before Athos could decide if he was angry or not. Before he could ask why Aramis had volunteered for an _outside_ patrol when the snow would only set him on edge. Before he could volunteer to join the patrol and go with him.

Instead Athos was left alone, hating himself once again.

* * *

 _Athos' drinking could have been so destructive. I can't imagine the others were always so okay with it as they seemed later on. I also imagine that he was much worse in their early days together._

 _Somebody tell my kids to be calm and quiet so mommy can write lol JK - they're 3 and 5 months so calm and quiet don't exist unless they're sleeping. Hopefully more later today!_


	10. Held At Gunpoint

_The prompt for this one was "held at gunpoint" and I couldn't pass up the chance for some PTSD Aramis. This one is set in the modern AU 'verse I dabbled in a couple chapters ago_

* * *

"I told you this was a bad idea," Porthos snapped irritably as they tramped through the woods.

"It's been nearly a year," Athos shot back, equally perturbed. "He hasn't had an episode in almost two months!"

Porthos whirled on him, gesturing around the woods with a wide sweep of his arm.

"Well he's bloody well having one now!"

"Arguing isn't going to help us find him any faster," Athos pointed out, shoving past Porthos to continue their search.

Porthos threw up his arms in frustration.

"He's ex- _Special Forces_. He can probably _sense_ us coming a mile away!"

Athos rolled his eyes, and glanced over his shoulder at Porthos.

"With as loud as _you're_ being, he'll likely _hear_ us long before then."

He frowned when Porthos eyes narrowed and then went abruptly very wide.

"What?" Athos barely got the question out before Porthos was yanking him to the dirt.

"Down!"

A shot cracked above their heads, imbedding in a tree just beyond where Athos had been standing.

They both laid there for a moment, breathing hard with the spike of adrenaline.

"Is that him?" Athos asked, shocked.

Porthos nodded.

"Saw the glint on his rifle by chance," Porthos revealed. "Didn't see _him_ , though…he's too bloody good at this."

Silence reigned around them, but it wasn't a comfort. A silent Aramis was usually a deadly one, or a dying one, neither option was welcome at the moment.

"What are our chances of getting out of this without him shooting us?" Athos wondered, easing his head above the log Porthos had pulled them down behind. He couldn't see anything, but ducked down just as a bullet bit into the wood an inch from his nose.

Porthos put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Best keep your head down with 'Mis behind the scope, yeah?"

"He didn't kill me," Athos stated.

"Lucky you."

"No, Porthos, he hit the wood _in front_ of me while I was still exposed enough to watch it happen."

Understanding lit Porthos' gaze.

"A warning." Then he narrowed his eyes in thought before suddenly nodding. "I'm gonna risk it."

He rolled out from behind their cover and flowed to his feet.

Athos reached fruitlessly after him, trying to pull him back.

"Wait, no!" He sighed. "Shit," he muttered before climbing to his feet as well.

He followed Porthos example and raised his hands in a show of surrender.

"Aramis, you know me," Porthos announced. "You know my voice. You're not where you think you are."

A bullet bit into the dirt before Porthos' feet.

He obediently stopped his approach and waited. No other bullet tore into flesh, so he figured he was safe to keep talking.

"Hear me, Aramis. Follow me back."

Abruptly, a figure swung down athletically from a tree, landing in a crouch. Aramis rose to face them, sniper rifle slung across his back and two Desert Eagle hand guns pointed at their heads. He'd camoflaugrd himself with mud spread across exposed skin and in the fading light, he cut white the lethal looking figure.

"What are you doing here?" Aramis demanded. "Who sent you?"

"He's still there," Athos murmured from Porthos shoulder.

"Aramis," Porthos tried again, extending a calming hand.

"Did you kill them? Are they all dead?" Aramis demanded, guns steady in his hands despite how his voice shook. "Where's Marsac? What have you done with him?"

"Aramis," Porthos intoned firmly, stepping forward.

Aramis' eyes homed in on him like a hawk spotting its prey and one of the guns rose to target Porthos' forehead.

"Hear me," Porthos commanded, not stopping his approach.

Aramis' eyes narrowed at him, and Porthos could see his mind whirling as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Follow me back," Porthos repeated the mantra once more.

Every time this happened, those words were the key.

 _Aramis. Hear Me. Follow me back._

Porthos didn't stop until the barrel of Aramis' Desert Eagle was pressing against the skin of his forehead.

Aramis looked confused now, nearly painfully so. Porthos wondered, in moments like this, what the world looked like to the marksman. Was reality blending with memory before his eyes? That was how Aramis described it once. Like an old reel film, playing with the two pieces of film stuck together, one image overlaid on the other.

It was no wonder Aramis always looked his most vulnerable in these moments, as he clawed his way back to them.

"Porthos?" Aramis finally whispered, eyes widening fractionally as recognition settled in.

"I'm here," Porthos assured.

"But…"

"You're not there," he went on before Aramis could argue. "You're not in Savoy."

"But…" Aramis looked to where Athos stood, obviously not having progressed far enough to recognize _him_ yet. "Who…"

"Oh that's just Athos," Porthos replied, careful to keep his voice light and warm. He was keenly aware that the gun was still pressed to his forehead. And Aramis, made strong through years of training, had not wavered in his aim.

"Athos…" Aramis repeated the name slowly.

Porthos watched the rest of reality trickle in through Aramis' eyes. The guns dropped to his side and he took a step back, eyes widening by the moment.

"Easy," Porthos coached, taking a single step in pursuit. "Breathe."

"What…what happened?" Aramis asked, eyes wide as saucers and breaths coming in sharp gasps. His eyes cut around them, confusion clouding them. "Where are we? How did we get here?"

Athos watched Porthos reach out, wrapping his hand around the back of Aramis' neck and forcing him to look at him. Ever since Savoy Porthos had just always seemed to _know_ what Aramis needed. He knew how to talk to him. When to be firm and when to be gentle. He'd known when a touch was needed and when it would only make things worse. Athos wasn't sure how he did it; how he interpreted the various pitfalls that came with Aramis' PTSD. But he was grateful that at least one of them knew how to get through to him.

"Focus on me and holster those weapons before you shoot your own foot," Porthos instructed firmly. When Aramis did as instructed, Porthos went on. "Something triggered you. You took off with your rifle before we knew what was happening. We've been tracking you for hours."

Aramis' brow slid up and he frowned in contemplation.

"That explains why I'm so thirsty."

Athos wordlessly produced his own water bottle and tossed it to him.

Aramis slid out of Porthos' grip and unscrewed the lid, downing a mouthful, only to grimace and give the bottle an odd look. Then he tossed a disbelieving glance at Athos.

Athos shrugged. There wasn't a rule that said he _had_ to carry _water_ when he was off duty.

"Thanks, but my liver isn't as resilient as yours," Aramis teased, tossing the bottle back. But then the marksman sobered, looking around again.

"Do you know what did it?" Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed, scrubbing a hand up into his hair.

"I don't know. I could have been any number of things. I haven't… I haven't been camping since…"

He didn't need to finish. They all knew how the sentence ended.

"Stop looking so worried," Aramis joked suddenly, a familiar forced smile on his face. "I'm fine now."

"Do you want to go home?" Athos asked seriously. They would, immediately, if that's what Aramis wanted. But the marksman shook his head, brow pinching together seriously.

"I won't tiptoe around for the rest of my life, worried about what could or might trigger me. I won't live like that," he stated firmly. "Maybe I wasn't ready for this yet," he admitted. "But I'm _here_ and I won't run home just because things haven't gone as smoothly as we'd like. I'm a _soldier_ , I need to be able to walk through the woods. Savoy took enough from me. I won't let it take my ability to do my job."

Athos shared a glance with Porthos, who shrugged in deference to Aramis' wishes. Athos looked back at Aramis to find him waiting expectantly. He stood straight and tall, shoulders rolled back confidently. His eyes were haunted, but so were theirs.

Athos inclined his head in agreement.

"Okay."

* * *

 _OMG I want to write a modern AU 'verse SOOO BAD. But I just don't have the time right now! Maybe one day. Until then, I'll just keep using these prompts to feed that urge haha. Forgive any mistakes, I was exhausted when writing this lol_


	11. Self Sacrifice

_OMG someone take this modern AU away from me XD Just kidding. I'm having way too much fun with it. The prompt for this one was "self sacrifice" This one is the longest one yet haha. Enjoy_

* * *

"Diablo, come in. Do you copy?" Porthos hissed.

"The EMP took out our comms, Porthos, he can't hear you," d'Artagnan pointed out. He shrugged when Athos glared at him. "What? He can't."

"Diablo, do you read me? Come in," Porthos tried again. When the comm line remained silent, he cursed. "This is bad," he stated.

"He'll be fine," Athos assured, though he sounded a bit like he was trying to convince _himself_.

"He's probably better off than _us_ at the moment," d'Artagnan added, peaking his head over the broken down, rusty truck they were using as cover. "We're the ones that're surrounded."

"I don't like this," Porthos lamented, shaking his head and glancing at Athos. "He's got no one watching his six."

"He never does when he's at roost, you know that," Athos countered, pressing his back more firmly against the side of the truck when more bullets pinged into the metal. "There's not much we can do about it anyway. We need to solve _our_ situation first, then worry about his."

Porthos clenched his jaw, looking momentarily rebellious. But then he blew out a harsh breath.

"Remind me to _kill_ whoever gave us this shitty intel," he snapped, then forced himself to take a slow breath. "If we can get to the Humvee, I can get us out of here," he strategized more calmly. He wasn't the top-rated driver within the Musketeers for nothing.

"How do you suggest we do that?" d'Artagnan asked. "We're outnumbered 10 to 1 and…" he looked down at his gun, checking the rounds, "I'm almost out of ammo."

Both veteran Musketeers gave him a reproachful look.

"I'm tellin' 'Mis on you," Porthos threatened. "He'll have you restocking your supply pack for hours. Out of ammo…" Porthos shook his head disapprovingly.

"Just because Aramis walks around with enough ammo strapped to him to supply a small militia, doesn't mean we all should," d'artagnan argued.

"Gentlemen," Athos' calm voice cut through their bickering.

They both looked at him, then edged up to follow his line of sight over the hood of the truck.

Their enemy were dropping one by one.

Porthos grinned wolfishly.

"Atta boy," he muttered, ducking back down.

"He's giving us our opening, we move on my command," Athos instructed firmly, tone all business. He edged around to the front bumper of the truck, gauging the distance to their Humvee. "On my mark."

"Uh, guys…" d'Artagnan's worried voice, made them both freeze. They snapped their heads around to look at him, but he was staring up into the hills. More specifically, he was staring at the large contingent of men now riding various vehicles _into_ the hills, straight for their hidden sniper.

"We can't warn him," Porthos breathed in horror.

"He'll see them coming," Athos replied sharply.

"There're too many of them," d'Artagnan pointed out. "If he keeps firing, he'll give away his position. He can't cover us _and_ himself."

Porthos stared at Athos. They both knew who Aramis would choose to protect.

"We can't waste it," Athos whispered.

They heard more shouts as the men firing at them continued to fall at a steady pace. Those that remained were now taking cover.

"We have to get to him," Porthos stated, firmly and without room for argument.

"And we will," Athos promised. "We _will_. But first, we have to get out of here. Now, on my mark, we move. Understood?"

Porthos looked sick at the idea, but nodded anyway.

"Retriever, you stay between us," Athos ordered.

D'Artagnan moved to crouch in front of Porthos.

"We have _got_ to discuss that code name," he muttered.

"Ready?" Athos eyed the area around them. Aramis had cut them a clean path and right now the enemy was only taking potshots at them. They had become more focused with shielding themselves from the sniper's assault. "Go."

They moved as one unit, swiftly and silently. Porthos laid down fire to cover their rear and Athos kept his gun up to ensure the way remained clear. D'Artagnan covered any outliers that came into sight. It took less than a minute to reach the Humvee and pile in.

Porthos cranked the engine and looked out the window, up into the hills where the enemy vehicles had disappeared.

"We can't get him back if we're dead," Athos reminded.

With one last long look, Porthos whispered an apology and then slammed the Humvee into gear and hit the gas.

* * *

Aramis ran his tongue across his upper lip, tracking his teams escape through his scope. He shifted his focus back to the enemy within the compound and saw several men preparing to pursue. He took out the engine block of one of their trucks, sending them all scattering for cover again.

His senses were blaring warning, but he ignored it.

He had seen a chunk of their enemy break off from the compound. He'd tracked the various four wheelers, dirtbikes and trucks headed his way for a moment before ignoring them in favor of covering his brothers.

He knew he was giving away his position. They would be on him in a matter of moments most likely. But until he knew his brothers were out of danger, he wouldn't give up his roost.

He fired again, destroying the engine of a dirt bike.

Then he went absolutely still as a presence loomed over him and the barrel of a rifle pressed into the back of his head.

"Stand up slowly," he was instructed firmly. "Keep your hands where we can see them."

Aramis did as he was asked, going first to his knees then rising to his feet, hands held up to waist height. He glared when one of the men snatched his rifle up, pawing at it in a way only a man unfamiliar with such weapons could.

"That's a custom-made rifle," he warned coldly. "If you break her, I'll break your hand."

The man holding the gun froze, eyes going wide. He quickly shoved the rifle into someone else hands. Aramis smirked darkly.

"What you're going to do is get on your knees and lace your fingers behind your head," the one who appeared to be the leader instructed.

"You _just_ told me to stand up," Aramis pointed out sarcastically. "Make up your mind."

The butt of a rifle slammed into the small of his back and a foot kicked against the back of his knee. His knees hit the dirt and he had to throw out a hand to catch himself.

"Alright, no need to be so hostile," he snarked, slowly straightening and very deliberately lacing his fingers behind his head. He glanced back at the man who had hit him. "I think I'll kill _you_ first."

"Shut him up!" the leader snapped.

This time the rifle but caught him in the head and Aramis was unconscious before he hit the dirt.

* * *

Aramis stumbled forward, glaring over his shoulder at the man who had shoved him.

He'd come around to find himself sprawled in the bed of a truck, hands tied behind his back. All of his weapons, save the knife he kept in his boot, were gone and the vicious, violent part of him was looking forward to retrieving each and every one. He'd realized quickly, once he'd vindictively thrown up his field rations all over the nearest man's boots, that they were taking him back to the compound.

A stupid move, if they'd bothered to ask his opinion. Now his brothers would know exactly where to find him. Not that he was going to warn _them_ of that.

All he had to do was stall for time _and_ keep them from getting him into one of the buildings. Once he was inside, rescue efforts became a _whole_ lot more complicated.

So when he was shoved again, he let himself sprawl to the dirt, purposefully throwing his left shoulder down. Without his hands to catch himself, his cheek scraped on the hard ground and his shoulder popped out of joint. He let loose a shout of pain purely for the viewers benefit. It was his bad shoulder, always popping out at the slightest sign of trouble. The coming out wasn't so bad anymore, or perhaps he'd just gotten used to it. It was the putting it _back in_ that he usually liked to avoid.

"Get up!" someone shouted, kicking at Aramis' feet.

"My shoulder," he ground out around a groan that was mostly real. "It's dislocated."

Hands latched onto him, yanking him up and holding him on his feet. A rough examination of his shoulder had him biting down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to draw blood.

"Well we better fix that," the leader decided. "Cut his hands free."

"Wait, wait, wait…just leave it, really," he protested as someone he couldn't see sliced through the ropes holding him. "Are you even trained to-" He gasped in pain as his arm was swiftly and efficiently manipulated and his shoulder forced roughly back into place.

Hands shoved him and he hit his knees, riding the wave of pain and then locking it away. There wasn't time for it. His brothers would be here at any moment. He had to be ready.

A red dot flashed in front of his face in the dirt, so briefly he would have missed it if he blinked.

Show time.

Time to distract.

"Get up," the leader snapped.

"I can't," Aramis replied, deliberately making his voice shake and following it with a gasp of pain. Boots kicked at him and he curled in on himself, protecting his head.

"Get up!"

Hands yanked at him again, and Aramis allowed himself to be pulled to his knees. He resisted going any higher, though. He didn't want to be in the line of fire, after all.

A gun barrel jabbed roughly against his temple.

"Get on your feet, or I will kill you right here."

Aramis saw a red dot flash on the leader's chest.

He smirked, feeling blood trickle over his lips from where his cheek was still bleeding into his mouth. The leader frowned down at him.

"Bang," Aramis whispered.

The leader fell.

Aramis snatched the gun from his hands and started firing, carving himself a path towards the three men rushing towards them. The men around him started panicking and one of them latched onto him. A knife glinted in Aramis' peripheral and he blocked it with his forearm, feeling the blade slice down to the bone. He grimaced and shot the man in the face. He tucked his bleeding arm to his abdomen and kept moving.

Porthos met him just as he broke away from the scattering enemy. The larger man wrapped an arm around his back and got a grip on his belt, hauling Aramis against his side and pulling him with him as they retreated.

Athos and d'Artagnan stepped forward, covering them as they ran – half stumbled in Aramis' case – back to the Humvee. When they got there, Porthos all but threw him into the back seat and then climbed in after him, Athos was in the driver seat a moment later and d'Artagnan slid into the passenger seat, still firing rounds back the way they'd come.

"GO!" Porthos shouted, clamping a hand around Aramis' forearm, which he dazedly realized was bleeding quite freely. "Hey, 'Mis, stay with me."

Aramis blinked at him, frowning at the lightheadedness that came over him.

Porthos leaned closer, staring into his eyes. But the way they were bouncing around made Aramis dizzy so he clamped his eyes closed.

"Concussion," he heard Porthos announce. "He's loosing a lot of blood. D'Art had me his medic pack…"

Aramis lost track of the conversation after that because with his eyes closed, it was surprisingly easy to fall asleep.

* * *

Athos shifted in his chair and grimaced. These plastic hospital chairs were hell for his back. D'Artagnan didn't seem to suffer any such discomfort because he'd been sleeping in one for hours now. The joys of youth.

Porthos was only sitting on the edge of his. He was leaning forward, elbows braced on the side of Aramis' bed, head resting wearily in his hands. He wouldn't sleep, willingly at least, until Aramis woke up. Athos wouldn't either. They'd both passed out for 15 minutes here or there over the course of the last three days, but hadn't gotten proper sleep.

Blood loss had been their main enemy this time, too much of it too quickly. When they'd gotten to the extraction point, where a medevac was mercifully waiting, Aramis' normally deeply tanned complexion was eerily gray.

Porthos had gone in the medevac with him, leaving Athos and d'Artagnan to take the regular chopper back to civilization.

Two transfusions later, it had been touch and go until recently. Finally, Aramis' vitals had leveled out and started growing stronger.

Athos glanced at Aramis' face, blinking in shock to find two sleep and drug muddled brown eyes staring at him.

"Aramis?" he called curiously, not sure if their brother was truly with them yet.

Porthos jumped, head snapping up and he leaned closer. Aramis' head rolled to face him, eyes clearing a bit at the sight of the larger Musketeer.

"There you are," Porthos greeted with a relieved smile, resting a hand on Aramis' unruly hair.

"Was I gone?" Aramis replied softly, lips quirking a bit at the familiar exchange.

"Not too far," Porthos assured. "Glad you're back, though."

Aramis grinned a little and then his eyes seemed to grow heavy again.

"Rest now," Athos instructed. "We've got the watch."

What little tension had risen, drained from Aramis' body and his eyes slid closed.

Porthos remained where he was for a moment longer before sinking back wearily into his seat.

"Sleep, Porthos," Athos instructed. "I'll rouse you if he wakes again."

The bigger man didn't argue, just folded forward and pillowed his head on his arms where he'd crossed them on the mattress.

"Wake me in a few hours to switch."

Athos nodded dutifully and settled back in his chair. His back ached, but he didn't move. He remained where he was, eyes on the door, keeping watch over his brothers.

* * *

 _Don't even try to work out all the plot holes in this one haha, I'm sure there were several. But MAN it was fun! :D I hope you enjoyed! More tomorrow!_


	12. Starvation

_The prompt for this one was "starvation" I struggled a bit before landing on this idea so...here goes. Back in their proper time for this one._

* * *

" _Dios_ ," Aramis muttered, hanging onto the rigging and barely keeping himself from going overboard.

"Again?" Porthos asked in sympathy as he leapt down from the upper deck, moving as if he was born on a ship.

"How is it you're not even the smallest bit affected?" Aramis wondered as he hauled himself upright, straining to regain a somewhat dignified posture. He schooled his expression expertly, but it did little good when he likely _looked_ as green as he felt.

"Dunno," Porthos answered with a smile. "Maybe I've got some pirate in me."

The ship lurched again, and Aramis closed his eyes, swallowing thickly.

"Have you kept anything down?" Porthos asked more seriously.

Aramis didn't dare open his mouth at the moment, so he just shook his head.

"What about the pup?" Porthos went on.

"Athos is with him," Aramis answered before cursing and folding himself over the edge of the ship again. He didn't know _how_ he kept getting sick. He'd lost what little food he'd eaten today _hours_ ago. When he was done, he became aware of a hand on his back.

"You don't look so good," Porthos commented worriedly.

"I'm fine," Aramis groaned out, hauling himself back to standing.

His eyes widened when the world tipped sideways, and he went lurching after it.

"Whoa!" he heard Porthos exclaim in surprise.

The next thing Aramis was aware of was the hard deck beneath him.

"What happened?" he asked the large Musketeer hovering over him.

"You passed out but only for a few seconds. Best get you down below."

Aramis allowed Porthos to haul him upright only to end up clinging to the larger man when his legs refused to properly support him.

"I thought you'd been on a ship before?" Porthos wondered as he practically carried him towards the main hatch.

"Only once…and I was below decks mostly…and unconscious."

Porthos shook his head, always a bit astounded by Aramis' stories from the early days of the Musketeers. He nearly carried Aramis down the steps on his back as they made their way below decks.

"When I _wasn't_ unconscious that time, I was too busy trying not to get myself killed to notice the movement…'s so _boring_ here…" Aramis went on wearily. He let Porthos deposit him on a cot across from the one d'Artagnan was sleeping on. "There was no storm then either," he finished with a sigh, eyes clenching closed as the ship swayed.

Athos raised his eyebrows at them.

"Found him up on deck hanging over the side of the ship," Porthos explained.

"Again?" Athos asked, concern clouding his eyes.

Aramis hardly seemed to even notice they were talking about him, much less care.

"I don't think 'Mis _has_ sea legs to even find," Porthos lamented. "How's that one?" he asked, nodding at d'Artagnan.

"Doing a bit better. Kept down some bread earlier," Athos reported.

They both looked at Aramis when he rolled to the side of the cot to wretch into the bucket placed next to it. Nothing came up, as it hadn't for hours, but his stomach still rebelled anyway.

Porthos crouched next to him, rubbing a hand across his shoulders. He looked at Athos with worried eyes.

"He's not kept food down for days now," he whispered. "We've still got two days left."

"It's this damn storm," Athos replied with a frown. "We would have been there yesterday without it."

"Oh, what a sweet dream that was," Aramis commented with an accompanying groan as he flopped back onto the cot.

"You need to try and eat," Athos pointed out. "And drink water."

Aramis groaned loudly in protest.

"Why must you torture me?" he asked pitifully, his usual stoicism fading after days of enduring the same unending sickness.

"Because we're rather fond of you and don't want you wasting away," Porthos replied, taking the bread Athos held out and extending it to Aramis.

The marksman stared at it but made no move to take it.

"I'm just going to throw it back up," he pointed out miserably.

"Maybe not. D'Artagnan didn't," Porthos reminded, gesturing at the sleeping Gascon. Aramis rolled his head to look at their youngest and then sighed.

"Fine."

He accepted the bread.

And threw it back up less than ten minutes later.

* * *

"Aramis, wake up. We're there," Porthos prodded gently.

Aramis' eyes fluttered open and he slowly shifted them to look at Porthos.

"We've stopped moving," he realized tiredly.

Porthos nodded.

"Mostly. We're in port. Let's get you off this ship, eh? Back on dry land?"

"To a bed that doesn't move," Aramis requested firmly.

"I promise. No moving beds," Porthos agreed, hauling Aramis up and supporting him towards the stairs. The marksman felt too thin in his arms after so many days without being able to keep food down. "Athos sent a letter to Treville," Porthos told him as they made slow progress up the stairs. "We're going to stay here a bit longer than planned. Give you and d'Artagnan a chance to recover a bit."

Aramis grunted his approval.

"Maybe I'll just stay here forever," he muttered.

"You don't mean that," Porthos replied with a chuckle. "What would you even do here?"

They stepped out onto the deck and headed directly for the gangplank. Athos and d'Artagnan were already waiting on the dock.

"I don't know, but I'd find something."

"What about us, then? You'd abandon us?" Porthos went on.

"You could always come visit," Aramis replied easily.

Porthos chuckled as they finally stepped off the gangplank onto the solid wood dock.

"We've acquired a recommendation for an inn," Athos informed them. "I suggest we make our way there before anything else."

"No moving beds," Aramis stated sharply.

"I'm with Aramis on that one," d'Artagnan agreed. Though he looked a bit better, he was still noticeably pale and sickly. "I don't suppose there's a way home _without_ going back on the ship?" he asked.

"Afraid not," Porthos replied with an apologetic smile.

"That's what I was afraid of," d'Artagnan sighed, moving ahead with Athos to lead the way.

Porthos kept supporting hands on Aramis as they slowly followed.

"I'm so hungry," Aramis admitted suddenly and very quietly.

"I know, 'Mis," Porthos soothed. "We've got you back on solid ground now. You can eat whatever you want."

"I feel like I'm still moving," Aramis complained.

"Me too. But the captain said that'll fade," Porthos assured.

"How much further?"

"I don't know, but it can't be far."

Aramis clenched his jaw in determination and they continued on.

* * *

Athos stuck his head through the door, searching the room until he saw Porthos near the hearth. The large man was stoking the fire that burned there. Further inspection of the room showed an Aramis shaped lump curled into the wall on the bed.

"How is he?" Athos asked in concern.

Porthos glanced at him, then at Aramis, then back to Athos.

"Kept down that broth. But mostly wanted to sleep. I'll get him to eat more when he wakes up."

Athos nodded.

"d'Artagnan ate down in the dining room. He claims to be feeling better. We're going to go meet the ambassador and get the mission sorted."

Porthos nodded.

"Want me to come along?" he asked, looking reluctant to even offer.

"No," Athos denied immediately. "Stay with him." He cast one last lingering look at Aramis then sighed. "We'll be back soon." Then he disappeared and shut the door.

Porthos wandered over to the bed and stretched back out on the spot he'd vacated to tend the fire. Aramis stirred, curling closer to the wall before rolling onto his back so they were laying shoulder to shoulder, staring at the roof.

"How you feeling?" Porthos asked.

"Hmmmm…hungry," Aramis replied eventually.

Porthos nodded, sitting up.

" _That_ I can help with. Do you want more broth or something solid?"

"Something solid?" Aramis hedged warily.

"Comin' right up," Porthos promised.

Aramis kept down the baked chicken Porthos brought him and by the next morning he was consuming everything in sight. Another time, Porthos might have gotten annoyed at constantly being sent for more food. But as it happened, he would have gladly fetched every morsel in the entire city if that's what Aramis had wanted.

* * *

 _I don't think I even re-read this one so hopefully there aren't too many mistakes lol. This wasn't my favorite prompt, but I feel like it was at least a solid effort. I'm heading back into the Modern AU tomorrow ;)_


	13. Sleep Deprivation

_Soooo the prompt for this one was "sleep deprivation" and I swung back into the Modern AU for it AND gave you some character backstory. Enjoy_

* * *

Aramis had never been what one would consider a 'good sleeper.' In the tiny one room apartment of his childhood, there had always been something to wake him through the night. Sirens through the window that would never _quite_ close. Fights heard through the too thin walls. Sabine or Vincent sneaking out - or _in_ depending on the time of night. His mother's alarm at 4 am so she could get to her job on time.

Then, when she had died, he had gone into the foster care system. His propensity to sleep lightly had been an asset then. Though he had learned quickly to always sleep with his valuable tucked close to his body. It had been in one such foster home that he had met a tall, lanky boy with curly black hair and deep, warm brown eyes. Porthos had been older by two years and he had born an air of someone that fiercely protected that which he valued.

Somehow, he'd come to value the smart mouthed, fiery tempered twelve-year-old Aramis had been at the time. Many a night had been spent curled into the wall next to his bed while Porthos slept at his back. Those nights had been the only time in his life that he had ever slept deeply and solidly. For the two years they were in the same home, Aramis had almost forgotten that he wasn't a 'good sleeper.' But then their home had gotten shut down, and no matter how much they had begged, he and Porthos had been separated. The ensuing four years had been a return to form for his sleeping habits.

Then he had mercifully turned 18, been freed from the system, and volunteered for another with Porthos at his side – the French Navy. It was in basic training that they had met Athos and become somewhat of an inseparable trio. But it had taken no one long at all to realize that someone with Aramis' natural ability with firearms should be trained for special forces. So he had been separated from his chosen brothers once again and gone to Commando training.

Sleep became a rare commodity, taken when and wherever it could be found. That suited him fine.

But then had come Savoy - a disastrous multi-unit operation that remained largely unexplained. He had only been weeks from a transfer. A special commando team had been formed – code named The Musketeers – and Aramis had been hand-selected to join Porthos and Athos within its ranks. Savoy had been meant to be his last mission with his old unit – and it had been, just not in the way anyone ever expected.

Sleep had not come easily or peacefully since.

On the worst nights, he and Porthos had reverted to the habits of their youth and shared a bunk. Aramis curled into the wall, and Porthos' back pressed against his.

But despite his tumultuous relationship with sleep, Aramis still _needed_ it eventually. He even rather _liked_ it when it wasn't plagued with nightmares.

This basic human need, that which all men are slaves to, was now their current problem.

"How long has it been, do you think?" Aramis asked loudly to be heard over the loud rock music blasting through the hidden speakers. He glanced at Porthos as he paced the confines of their small white-walled cell. Porthos was sitting on the floor against the wall, head tipped back, and eyes closed against the bright fluorescent lights.

"20 hours? 24?" he guessed in response. He cracked an eye open to watch Aramis' restless prowl around the room. "Sit down."

But Aramis shook his head, hands tracing the outline of the door, looking for weaknesses in the frame.

"You've checked that door half a dozen times already," Porthos pointed out. "You're making me _more_ tired with all that pacing. Come sit down."

The slight guilt trip worked because Aramis sighed and slid down the wall to sit next to him.

The lights abruptly went off and the room went silent.

Porthos shifted pressing his arm more solidly against Aramis'.

"Fight it," Porthos murmured. "It'll be worse if you don't."

Aramis had lost count of the number of times they had done this dance. Music and lights for what seemed like hours, then a blessed period of dark silence. But this reprieve was always short lived and varied in length. Then the lights and music would come back.

At first it hadn't been so bad, but as time wore on and fatigue set in, the cruelty of it got more and more pronounced. But they'd found as long as they stayed awake, the return of the stimulation wasn't so jarring. That task was getting harder and harder, though.

The period of dark silence was longer this time and Aramis couldn't help it, his eyes slid closed and his head tipped onto Porthos' shoulder.

"Ara-" Porthos call was cut off by a sudden blasting of rock music and the return of the too bright lights.

Aramis jumped, startled awake and caught his breath. He blinked in horrified shock at a room that was suddenly blanketed in snow. He stumbled to his feet, turning to take in the bodies scattered around him. As he always did in these moments of lost clarity, he stumbled toward the bodies, intent to check for life signs.

He came abruptly out of the flashback to find himself on his knees, Porthos kneeling in front of him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his neck. Seeing Aramis come back to himself, Porthos sagged in relief, dropping his head forward until their foreheads touched.

Aramis swallowed and realized his breaths were coming in sharp, harsh gasps. He reached out, wrapping a hand in Porthos' shirt, trying to ground himself and Porthos pulled him closer, guiding Aramis' forehead to his shoulder and cupping a hand at the back of his head.

He could barely hear him over the music, but Porthos spoke steadily to him.

"I'm here with you, 'Mis. You're not there. I'm here."

He hadn't had a flashback in almost half a year. There had been the occasional bad day, a panic attack here and there when something especially triggering happened. But nothing like this.

Aramis didn't know how long they sat there, on their knees facing each other. But eventually the lights and music cut off again and both of their postures wilted in relief.

"Stay awake," Porthos pleaded. "Come on, 'MIs, talk to me."

"What about?" Aramis asked tiredly.

"Anything…just don't go to sleep. Tell me about your mum."

"You know those stories."

"Tell them again," Porthos instructed. "Talk, Aramis. Stay awake."

So Aramis did.

* * *

36 hours later, Athos and d'Artagnan finally found them.

"It's this room?" Athos asked sharply over the comm.

" _Affirmative, Whiskey. Outlaw and Diablo are in there."_ Treville's no-nonsense voice responded over the comms. He was in the control room 'questioning' a few of the men they'd rounded up during their infiltration.

Athos glanced at d'Artagnan as they neared the door.

"Do you hear that?" d'Artagnan asked lowly.

Athos nodded. The nearer they got to the room, the louder it got.

Rock music.

Athos lifted his gun and reached for the door handle, but waited until d'Artagnan was in position before turning it. He swung the door inward and stepped through, gun up, d'Artagnan sweeping in behind him to cover the opposite side of the room.

Athos lowered his gun immediately, crossing the room in quick strides to kneel next to his brothers.

Porthos was sitting in the back corner, back against the wall and legs stretched out. Aramis was sitting directly in front of him, facing him, legs bent over Porthos', and curled forward until his forehead was pressed against Porthos' sternum. Porthos had his hands over Aramis', which were pressed over the marksman's ears.

Porthos pulled his head forward, blinking heavily at Athos when he put a hand on the bigger man's shoulder.

"Retriever, get rid of the music and lights," Athos shouted over his shoulder. He didn't watch to see if d'Artagnan obeyed, he knew the boy would follow the order. Athos waited as patiently as he could, keeping a hand on Porthos' shoulder. He didn't dare touch Aramis yet. The fact that the usually hyper=aware marksman hadn't acknowledged his arrival spoke clearly as to his current headspace.

Abruptly, the room went silent and dark.

Porthos visibly deflated, dropping his head forward until his forehead hit the back of Aramis' head. He slowly peeled his hands off Aramis', looking stiff at the movement. Athos was left wondering how long they had been sitting like this. Porthos let his hands drop onto Aramis' shoulders instead.

"How long's it been?" Porthos asked without lifting his head.

"2 and a half days," Athos responded.

Porthos groaned.

"Yeah, that feels about right."

Athos shifted a nervous look down at Aramis, who hadn't moved save for the subtle tremor that Athos could see vibrating his entire body. As if sensing his worry, Porthos painstakingly lifted his head and reached to gently tug at Aramis' wrists, finally pulling his hands away from his ears.

"'S okay now, 'MIs. It's over."

Aramis slowly started to move. First his hands flexed, then his spine started to uncurl. He braced a hand on Porthos' shoulder to steady himself as he finally lifted his head. Athos watched him warily, concern growing by the moment. Aramis didn't look at him, barley even looked at Porthos, just combed a trembling hand up into his hair and straightened further.

"Can you stand?" Athos asked carefully. He started to reach out, but Aramis jerked away from the touch before he ever got close. A glance at Porthos yielded a slight shrug and a shake of his head.

Athos retreated, allowing them space to find their feet on their own. They did. Slowly and with postures lined with weariness.

D'Artagnan appeared in the doorway.

"Uh…time to go," he urged. "We've got incoming."

That news seemed to breath one last wind into Aramis because he seemed to come back to life. His eyes cleared a little and he finally looked at Athos.

"Is there a plan?" he asked, voice scratchy and rough.

Athos gave him a smirk.

"Of course there is."

* * *

Hours later, Athos sat in the infirmary ward of their home base – a compound that was affectionately known as The Garrison. D'Artagnan was sleeping the first bed afforded to the room while Athos took up residence in one of the chairs near the window.

Aramis and Porthos were crammed into the second bed. Aramis was curled into the bed rail, body wrapped around a pillow, and looking impossibly small considering he was 6 feet of lithe muscle. Porthos was wedged in behind him, facing the opposite direction, looking entirely too large to fit in one of these infirmary beds _alone_ , much less with another full-grown man.

But Aramis hadn't been able to sleep alone.

Though perhaps it was more accurate to say, he _had_ slept, but not well. He'd been restless and plagued with nightmares. It had gotten so bad at one point that it roused Porthos from his own sound slumber. The larger man had stumbled over to Aramis' bed, shoved at him until he rolled away and then collapsed in behind him.

Neither had moved since.

It wasn't the first time Athos had witnessed the deep-rooted familiarity of their brotherhood. He knew there was a long history between them that stretched into their childhoods. And though he knew they both accepted him a brother, his friendship with them would never compare.

Athos looked up from his phone when Treville walked in, two coffees in hand. He handed one to Athos and arched a brow at the odd sleeping arrangements.

"From what Porthos told me, after Aramis' exhaustion reached a certain point, the music and lights started triggering his PTSD. Flashbacks, is what Porthos said."

Treville shook his head in sympathy.

"This is the only way Aramis could sleep and actually _rest_ ," Athos went on, waving a hand at the doubly occupied bed.

"Whatever works," Treville allowed with a sigh. "I've secured you all a week's leave time. When these two are released, get them off site for a few days."

Athos nodded. It wasn't uncommon for Treville to send them away to recuperate after a hard mission. None of them relaxed very well around the hustle and bustle of The Garrison.

They would go somewhere sunny and warm, he decided, with no camping and no hint of snow.

* * *

 _Oh man, this modern AU is growing in my head...i've got backstories forming now...And so you know, their backstories in the modern AU differ greatly from the backstories I have for them in my actual universe I crafted for The Musketeers which is set in their time._

 _More tomorrow. And for those of you that are worried, I will continue to do these until I finish all 31 prompts, even if that takes me into November...which it most assuredly will lol_


	14. Conditioning - Brainwashing

_the prompt for this one was "conditioning or brainwashing" I went with conditioning because it fits perfectly into my narrative for how Aramis' father raised him. This is set very early on in their knowing each other._

* * *

"I wish I understood why you do this," Athos commented lowly. He didn't look at them as he said it, instead, he gazed into the flames of the fire burning in the hearth, draining the rest of the wine in the cup he held.

Porthos glanced up the swordsman from where he was carefully spreading Aramis' special liniment on the marksman's deeply bruised ribs. When Athos still didn't look at them, Porthos glanced at Aramis. When the marksman didn't break from his stoic stare at absolutely nothing, Porthos shook his head in exasperation and went back to his task.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Athos snapped, his voice pitched in that furious, but carefully controlled tone that Aramis hated.

Porthos glanced up again, but Aramis remained unmoved, staring ahead unflinchingly as Porthos finished his work and reached for the strips of cloth they'd set aside to wrap around his torso. Porthos found himself hoping for a twitch, or a flinch, something – _anything_ – to indicate he was even there with them at all and not lost somewhere in his head.

"You in there, 'Mis?" Porthos questioned quietly.

Aramis blinked, turning his head to look at Porthos.

"I'm here," he answered evenly.

"Why do you do this?" Athos asked again. "First that mess two months ago where you hid the slash across your ribs. Now this? Why didn't you _say_ something?"

Aramis' gaze cut away guiltily, but he didn't offer a response.

"We would have stopped hours ago," Porthos pointed out. "We wouldn't have minded. Instead you kept this mess to yourself." Porthos waved a hand at the deep bruising painted across his chest and side. "And kept riding for _hours_."

"Would you even have told us?" Athos demanded. "If you hadn't nearly collapsed when you dismounted your horse, would you have even _told us_?"

Aramis didn't look at them.

"No," he answered simply.

Now Porthos was getting as furious as Athos already appeared to be.

"Why the bloody hell not?"

Aramis looked back at him, his gaze clearly indicating how ridiculous he believed they were being.

"Because it's nothing. A few bruises," he replied steadily.

"A few bruises?!" Porthos snapped in disbelief. "You've got bloody _broken_ ribs, Aramis!"

"I'm fine," Aramis insisted.

"I've never heard such a ridiculous lie," Athos snapped. He gestured at Aramis' bruised chest with his wine cup. "You are clearlynot _fine_."

Aramis shook his head in frustration and looked away again.

Porthos sighed, reigning in his own temper.

"Just talk to us, 'Mis," he pleaded quietly. "Help us to understand."

"You can't," Aramis argued bluntly, gaze fixed on some spot on the wall.

"Try us," Porthos insisted.

Aramis shook his head again and then closed his eyes.

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke.

"If an injury doesn't kill you, it shouldn't slow you," he stated in an oddly blank voice.

Porthos frowned, glancing at Athos whose brow had drown together in confusion.

"If you can't stand on your own, you don't deserve to stand at all," Aramis went on. "Pain is merely weakness. It can and should be overcome."

"Where's all that come from?" Porthos asked carefully.

Aramis finally looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and Porthos swallowed at the unfamiliar coldness in his brother's eyes.

"These are just some of the lessons bred into me by my father during my youth."

Porthos nearly shivered at the steely, emotionless tone of Aramis' voice. It was like nothing he had ever heard from him before and was certainly nothing he ever wanted to hear again.

"Your father?" Athos asked slowly, clearly as confused as Porthos.

"A cold, hard man whom I have no desire to ever see again," Aramis explained with a frown.

"He…he taught you to think this way?" Porthos asked slowly. "To believe…" he trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

"He taught me that weakness would not be tolerated," Aramis responded stiffly. "And took great measures to ensure the lesson was a permanent one."

"What did he do?" Athos asked, expression expertly schooled, but eyes wide with shock.

"Nothing that matters now," Aramis replied. "All you need to know is that I've been trained to…compartmentalize certain things."

"Compartmentalize?" Porthos repeated blankly, unfamiliar with the term.

"It means to lock it away, to ignore it," Athos explained. "Your father demanded this of you? As a child?"

"My father demanded strength."

"This isn't strength," Porthos argued. "Ignoring injuries is _foolish_ , not to mention _dangerous_."

"It's tactical," Aramis shot back. "And it's saved my life many times."

Porthos shook his head, horrified. He hated the way Aramis was talking about this, as if it was _normal_ , or worse, _valuable_.

"I told you that you wouldn't understand," Aramis reminded evenly.

"We want to," Athos replied. "But Aramis…you do realize that this way he made you think is _wrong_?"

"Of course I do," Aramis replied immediately. "But knowing that doesn't change anything. This way of thinking, of behaving, is a _part_ of me – as natural and instinctive as breathing."

Porthos stood, pacing across to the open window so he could draw in a deep breath of fresh air.

"Do you think I haven't tried to change?" Aramis challenged. "Do you think _Treville_ hasn't spent the better part of the last five years trying to get me to unlearn these lessons? Some things are just not so easily forgotten."

Porthos stared out at the night, heart troubled. Of course Treville hadn't tolerated such self-destructive behavior passively. But if he had not been able to put it right, what hope was there for _them_ to make a difference.

He felt a stirring of hatred for Aramis' father, whoever and wherever he was. What kind of man would demand such stoicism from a _child_?

"Pain is not weakness," Athos stated suddenly, voice firm and uncompromising. " _We_ will never see it as such. Whatever strength you believe you must have, know that we will never demand that of you."

Porthos turned in time to see Aramis absorb the words with a slightly confused frown.

"If you need help to stand? We'll be there to prop you up," Porthos added. "If an injury slows you, we'll be there to cover you."

Aramis's gaze flicked back and forth between them, eyes wide with surprise.

"You will never have to ask these things of us, Aramis. And we'll ask nothing of you in return," Athos went on. "There is no condition placed on our loyalty or brotherhood."

Porthos nodded fervently, meeting Aramis' eyes sincerely when the marksman glanced at him.

"You're not going to beg me to change?" Aramis wondered suspiciously. "Yell at me about what a foolish way to think this is?"

"Oh I'm sure we would both very much like to," Athos admitted. "But you already know the truth of that," he pointed out. "We will, instead, simply remain at your side."

Emotion flooded Aramis' expression, his expressive eyes clearly showing the impact of Athos' promise. He dipped his head once in humble acceptance of the vow.

"And," Porthos added a bit more lightly, "if I ever meet your father, I'll likely punch him square in the face."

Unpredictably, Aramis _grinned_ as if that were something he would very much like to see.

* * *

 _I have a story planned where they meet his father. And Porthos WILL very likely punch the man square in the face at some point. More tomorrow hopefully_


	15. Drugged

_The prompt for this was "drugged" I'm no drug expert, and this is for fun anyway. But we are back into the Modern Au for this one :)_

* * *

"I don't know why you're wasting your time with _him_ ," Aramis commented casually, as if it were just another day and they _weren't_ currently being violently interrogated. D'Artagnan shot him an annoyed glare. He knew exactly what Aramis was about to do and, while he appreciated the protectiveness behind the gesture, he willed the man to keep his mouth _shut_ for once.

The marksman was handcuffed to a metal chair, in the exact same fashion as d'Artagnan, but he appeared completely at ease and wholly unconcerned about their precarious situation. D'Artagnan watched Aramis tilt his head, regarding both the man who had just spent the last several minutes beating him and d'Artagnan himself with nothing more than vague disinterest.

"He's only been with our unit for what? Three weeks now?" Aramis went on airily, as if the whole situation bored him terribly. "The most valuable information he knows is how to dig a proper latrine."

Their interrogator stepped back from d'Artagnan, arching a brow curiously at Aramis.

"I mean just _look_ at him," Aramis jerked his chin towards d'Artagnan. "He's all floppy hair and puppy dog eyes… Barely more than a child and hardly the threat you seem to think him."

D'Artagnan _knew_ Aramis was just trying to draw the interrogators attention, but the comment still stung. His lack of experience was a point of self-consciousness and had been a source of merciless teasing. And then there were the _puppy_ references – _all the time_.

As had been Aramis' intention, the interrogator took a step away from d'Artagnan, cocking his head in contemplation and what appeared to be mild fascination.

"And you?" the man asked. "Are you a threat?"

Aramis quirked his lips into an arrogant and vaguely predatory smirk and let that answer for him.

D'Artagnan wasn't quite sure how he managed such a look, how he could say _so much_ without ever saying a word. Athos and Porthos both possessed a similar skill. D'Artagnan, ever the new puppy, hadn't yet mastered it.

The interrogator turned his back on d'Artagnan completely and focused completely on Aramis. The marksman's gaze stayed fixed on their captor, but his left hand flexed, pulling slightly against the handcuff that held it. D'Artagnan wasn't so new that he didn't catch the clear signal to attempt to free himself while Aramis had the man distracted. Porthos insisted they all kept paperclips tucked away in various places on their uniforms for times just like this. Doing his best not to rattle the cuffs on the metal chair, d'Artagnan stretched his fingers towards the clip he knew was hidden in the flap of the cargo pocket on his pants.

"Your training serves you well," the interrogator commented to Aramis, sounding impressed and intrigued all at once. "I can see in your eyes that my usual methods won't work on you."

Aramis' smirk remained fixed as he held the man's gaze.

"I'm flattered," he snarked.

"But this, I think, you can't have trained for." The man reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a syringe and a small glass vial.

D'Artagnan froze, freshly retrieved paperclip pinched between his fingers, eyes zeroing in on the unidentified drug.

Aramis' expression didn't crack. His gaze slid down to the drug then disinterestedly back to their captors face.

"Sodium pentathol is it?" Aramis guessed.

"Truth serum," the man agreed.

Aramis chuckled.

"Unreliable, at best," Aramis pointed out. "Surely you know this."

"Reliability is not my concern," the interrogator shrugged as he moved closer. "You present a challenge, my friend. This won't get me any hard and fast truths, not on its own. But it _will_ put you in a more… _useful_ state of mind for what comes next."

D'Artagnan hastily started manipulating the paperclip, bending it with his fingers into the shape he needed. Porthos had drilled him on this for _hours_ and it was nearly rote instinct now. He flicked a worried glance at Aramis and while the sniper appeared unconcerned on the surface, amused even, d'Artagnan could see a stirring of panic hidden deeply in his eyes.

Aramis didn't react as the drug was injected, but to clench his jaw and glare fiercely at the man. As D'Artagnan watched, though, a sudden change swept over him. His pupils blew and his head dropped back and then rolled forward as if it had suddenly become too heavy for him.

"I'll give you a moment," the interrogator took Aramis' chin and leaned in to hiss in his ear. "I want you to think of the worst time in your life… Go there. Remember every detail." Then he shoved Aramis' head away and strode out of the room without even giving d'Artagnan a passing glance.

As soon as the door shut, d'Artagnan went back to work on his cuff, shooting worried glances at Aramis. The sniper just sat there, shaking his head slowly as he stared down at his knees.

"Diablo?" d'Artagnan called softly. "Hey! You with me?"

Aramis lifted his head, looking around in confusion.

"Where's Porthos?"

D'Artagnan frowned at the use of Porthos' real name.

"He's not here. _Outlaw's_ not here."

Aramis frowned, gaze flitting around restlessly, but not seeming to really _see_ anything.

"Outlaw…because he's got a record. Sealed though," Aramis spouted.

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise.

"I didn't know that," he replied.

Aramis shrugged dismissively.

"No one does. No one but me 'n Athos and Treville."

D'Artagnan kept working on freeing himself, biting back a question about _their_ codenames. It would be wrong to take advantage.

"Whiskey," Aramis murmured, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Whiskey because it was his drink of choice before he got sober…it's a reminder not to go back."

D'Artagnan stared at him. _Screw it._

"And yours?"

"Diablo. I'm Diablo."

"I know," d'Artagnan replied. "Why?"

"Because I'm the devil in disguise…an angel of death behind a scope…a reaper."

D'Artagnan wondered if the chill that glided down his spine was because of the cool temperature in their cell or the eerie words.

"Athos and Porthos wouldn't have named you for that," d'Artagnan insisted. In fact, he was certain the two had no idea the true meaning Aramis believed his codename held.

"I chose it," Aramis revealed.

D'Artagnan stared at him. He'd thought Aramis' codename was the coolest of all of them – the most badass. But now…now he wished it was anything else.

Aramis suddenly looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time.

"The worst time in my life," he stated suddenly. "Do you want to know what it was?"

"Aramis, no…" d'Artagnan tried, sure he was about to witness some sort of Savoy related flashback. But Aramis instead looked reflective as he went on.

"Foster care," he decided. "Not before Porthos…after. After they separated us."

D'Artagnan got one wrist free and started in on the second. He refused to prod the story along. He was sure he didn't want to know the details Aramis was surely about to spill.

"He doesn't know. I never told him," Aramis confessed. "I never told anyone."

D'Artagnan froze.

"You all always wonder why pain means so little to me," Aramis went on as he pulled experimentally at his cuffs. Then he cocked his head, staring intently at his left hand. "When you've had enough of it, it just becomes white noise."

Aramis curled his fingers around his thumb and sharply forced the joint out of place.

D'Artagnan sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide, as he watched Aramis calmly slip his hand out of the cuff, thumb folded unnaturally into his palm. D'Artagnan focused back on his cuff and had it loose a moment later. He practically dove across the space between them, catching Aramis' hand before he could dislocate the thumb of his right hand as well.

"I've got it," d'Artagnan whispered. Aramis shrugged and allowed him to set to work on the cuff. As soon as he was free, Aramis casually reached across and forced his left thumb back into place. "Let's get out of here, yeah?" d'Artagnan suggested, pulling Aramis up from the chair.

"Don't tell Porthos," Aramis requested suddenly. "He doesn't know. He'd feel guilty and it's not his fault."

"I won't," d'Artagnan promised softly. He pulled one of Aramis' arms over his shoulder and walked him towards the door.

"We wanted to stay together," Aramis went on as if d'Artagnan hadn't spoken. He followed along willingly as they moved, but continued to chatter. "I'd had a brother before, but Vincent didn't like me very much. Porthos seemed to like me, even with my temper and smart mouth. Well he didn't like my smart mouth so much because it tended to get me into trouble…"

"No surprise there," d'Artagnan muttered as he eased the door open and peeked out into the hall.

"Porthos was a good brother. He looked out for me and no one had ever done that before," Aramis went on easily.

"Maybe you should be quiet," d'Artagnan suggested in a hissed whisper, but Aramis didn't appear to hear him. Or he just simply ignored him.

"When the group home we were in shut down I begged my social worker to place me with him. I cried when she said no. I hadn't cried since my mama died. I had been alone for so long before Porthos. I didn't want to be alone again…" Aramis sounded so sad at the memory that d'Artagnan felt his own throat tighten.

"You're back with Porthos, though, aren't you?" he reminded.

Aramis perked up a bit at that.

"He waited for me. He moved into an apartment down the street from my group home after he turned 18. He's a good brother," he said again.

"He is," d'Artagnan agreed.

"So's Athos," Aramis announced brightly. "We met him in basic training."

"I've heard the story."

"You've heard a _version_ …not the _best_ version. Not _my_ version."

"I'm sure its colorful."

"He didn't like me much at first," Aramis explained. "I talk too much."

"I've noticed."

"Athos didn't like bright and happy things back then. I tended to be both all the time. Overcompensating a bit, I suppose." Then Aramis looked at him as seriously as he could in his drug-induced haze. "You won't tell Porthos, right?"

"I won't," d'Artagnan promised.

Aramis brightened again.

"Athos likes me now. Most of the time at least. He says I still talk too much."

"I find myself agreeing," d'Artagnan replied with a grin, quickening their pace when he spotted an exit.

"He stopped his drinking because of me…well because of me and Porthos. Nasty business that day was…still have the scar."

D'Artagnan desperately wanted to ask, but bit his tongue to stop himself.

"I like him better sober, not so gloomy. Still moody though."

"I suppose he is a bit moody," d'Artagnan agreed with a grin as they stepped warily through the exit door and out into the open.

"A dirt bike!" Aramis exclaimed suddenly, nearly tripping them both as he tried to move towards the black dirt bike parked nearby.

"No! No dirt bike!" d'Artagnan scolded. "You'd fall off before we went two feet."

"I love motorcycles," Aramis sighed dreamily. "Have you met my motorcycle?"

D'Artagnan sighed and manhandled Aramis into a hard topped jeep. He climbed in after him and leaned down to hotwire it.

"I'm tired," Aramis announced suddenly, slumping wearily against the door, breathing startlingly shallow.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan snapped. "Stay awake!"

But Aramis was already gone. The jeep roared to life and d'Artagnan put the gas pedal to the floor just as gunfire erupted behind them.

* * *

 _Look at little d'Art saving the day. Sorry this didn't go up yesterday. Work stuff kept me busy until really late. More tomorrow!_


	16. Sensory Deprivation

_So ever since we saw Aramis shoot blindfolded in the show, I've wanted to play with how he learned to do that. So here we are. Prompt for this one "Sensory Deprivation"_

* * *

Aramis woke to darkness.

At first, he thought perhaps night had fallen and nobody had lit a candle. But then other things started to filter unto his muddled thoughts.

Sounds. There were so many sounds. Birds chirping. Swords clashing. Shouts and laughter.

Smells. Morning dew. The fresh bread from the bakery down the street from the Garrison.

Then memory. Running after someone. A dark corridor, a spark and then…an explosion of light, searing pain…then nothing.

Aramis surged up, hands clawing at his face, pulling at the linen bandage he found wrapped around his eyes.

"Easy!" a familiar voice rumbled as hands caught his wrists, pulling his hands away from his eyes.

"Porthos?" Aramis gasped, twisting in Porthos' grip until he could reach out and fumble for a fistful of his brother's shirt. The contact did little to ground him, though when darkness still pressed in on him from all sides.

He turned his head frantically, seeking a shadow or some sign that there was light left in his world. His heart started pounding when none could be found.

"You need to calm down or Henri is gonna put you back to sleep again," Porthos warned.

"Again?" Aramis questioned, chest heaving with increasingly panicked breaths.

"You've woken before," Athos voice startled him and his head jerked in that direction. "It didn't go well."

"Calm down," Porthos instructed gently. "Slow breaths, 'Mis."

Aramis tightened his hand in Porthos' shirt, turning his focus inward. He did as his father had taught him and commanded his body to yield to his will. His heart beat slowed, his breaths became less frantic.

"That's it," Porthos praised.

"I'll get Henri," Athos announced. Aramis barely held back a flinch when the door opened and closed suddenly.

"What happened?" Aramis demanded, fingers twitching against the urge to pull at the bandages again.

"There was an explosion. You were closer than the rest of us. Your eyes were…I don't know exactly. Henri said something about burns inside."

Aramis frowned, a stirring of panic starting to wrap him in its grasp again.

"Am I… Am I _blind_?"

Porthos remained silent for a bit longer than was comforting.

"Henri will explain it better," the other man finally replied.

Aramis felt his heart start to pound again. His hands twitched, the urge to rip away the bandage and try to _see_ nearly overwhelming. As if sensing his intent, Porthos' hands tightened on his wrists.

"Just wait for Henri, 'Mis," his brother pleaded.

As if cued, the door suddenly opened. Aramis tensed, a fight or flight instinct surging to life in a way it hadn't since just after Savoy.

"Easy," Porthos urged softly.

"Look who's awake," Henri's familiar voice greeted him warmly. "How do you feel?"

"Am I blind?" Aramis demanded bluntly.

Henri sighed.

"You never were one for pleasantries in moments like this," the old physician lamented. "Very well, the answer is I don't know."

Aramis frowned deeply.

"What?"

"Your injury is beyond that which I truly know how to treat. I've done what I can, but the best thing to do is simply let your eyes heal."

"Heal? It's not permanent then?" Aramis asked.

"Perhaps not," Henri replied. "But perhaps it is. We will only know when you've healed."

Aramis pulled his wrists out of Porthos' steady grasp and retreated in his bed, backing away until he hit the wall.

"Aramis?" Porthos called in concern.

"Leave me," Aramis requested quietly.

"I don't think that's…" Athos started, but Aramis cut him off.

" _Leave!"_ Aramis snapped.

"Perhaps we should give him a moment to himself," Henri suggested softly. "Come, boys, leave him be."

There was a deep sigh and then the sound of several footsteps on the floor. The door opened, but before it shut Porthos' voice rang out.

"I'll bring you some food in a bit. Shout if you need anything. I won't be far."

With that promise the door then closed.

Aramis pulled his legs up to his chest and slowly reached to trace his fingers along the bandage wrapped around his head. He wanted to rip it off, but he knew enough of medicine now to keep himself in check. He must let his eyes heal, Henri had said. If there was ever an opinion he trusted about his health, it was Henri's.

So instead he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees.

What if his sight was gone forever? What if he was now blind. His sight had made him the greatest marksman in the entirety of the Musketeers. What would he be without it? Certainly no longer a Musketeer.

And what would he be without the Musketeers? This was his _life_. His identity was built on being a soldier. He would be nothing without it – worthless.

He turned his face down into his knees, and tried to imagine such a life.

And he listened to the world outside his room go on without him.

* * *

"It's been days. He's not eating. He just sleeps and _lays_ there," Porthos grumbled as he stared up at the door to his and Aramis' shared quarters. "And he's not _talking_ …not at all. That's the worst part. I hate it when he's bloody quiet like this. It's unnatural."

"He needs time," Athos reasoned, but the frown on his face suggested he wasn't convinced of this.

They both straightened their postures when Treville suddenly loomed over them.

He joined them in staring at the door and then cleared his throat.

"You're both on patrol at the palace in an hour," he announced.

Porthos balked.

"But.."

"That's an order, soldier," Treville snapped.

"We had thought to stay close at hand," Athos interjected.

"I know what you thought. And as you two so astutely noticed, its' been days with no improvement. So why don't you go about the duties you've been assigned and give him some space."

"Space?" Porthos scoffed. "We've been giving him all the space in the world!"

Treville arched a brow at him.

"If you think he doesn't know you're both sitting down here staring at that door, then you're grossly underestimating him."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a sheepish glance.

"No _go_ ," Treville commanded.

They both reluctantly rose from the table and obeyed.

* * *

Aramis didn't bother rolling over when the door to his room opened. Whichever of his brothers it was would likely leave the food they brought and then retreat.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when an unexpected voice spoke.

"On your feet, soldier."

Aramis twisted in bed, turning his head towards Treville even though he couldn't see him.

"I believe I gave you an order," Treville's voice rang out again.

"We both know how I am with orders," Aramis shot back, though he did reluctantly roll off his bed and straightened to his feet.

He heard Treville slowly approach, taking deliberate, measured steps. Aramis cocked his head, trying to track his progress.

"Good," Treville suddenly praised. "You're paying attention."

Aramis' brow drew together in confusion.

"Get dressed," Treville snapped. "And meet me down in the yard."

Now Aramis frowned fully.

"But…"

"But what? You've forgotten how to dress yourself? You've forgotten how to go down stairs?"

Aramis drew his head back, scoffing in offense.

"That's what I thought."

Then Treville left, closing the door sharply behind him.

Aramis stood there for a moment, before his curiosity got the better of him. He fumbled around the room, finding first his trousers, then a shirt. A quick sniff suggested it was _mostly_ clean and would do. He found his boots by tripping over them and blindly dug in his trunk until he found stockings.

Finally clothed, he moved towards where he thought the door was, hands outstretched to prevent him running into the wall. He tripped over something anyway, but didn't fall.

He found the wall, feeling along it until his fingers bumped against the door handle. Then he finally made his way out onto the porch. A few steps straight ahead and he found the rail then it was a relatively simple thing to follow it to the stairs.

Here he paused, knowing a fall could prove deadly.

"I've not got all day!" Treville barked from below. "When was the last time you _looked_ when you were walking down the stairs?"

Aramis cocked an eyebrow. That was true, he supposed.

He stuck one foot out and stepped down, and then did so again. It was easy after that, as his body remembered the distance and height of each step. He'd been going up and down them for years after all.

He finally found the ground and then licked his lips, starting towards the middle of the yard.

"Over here," Treville beckoned.

Aramis adjusted his trajectory to follow the call. A hand caught his arm, halting him and then something smooth and sweetly familiar pressed into the palm of his right hand.

One of his twin pistols.

"I want you to shoot the target," Treville explained.

Aramis' hand tightened on the weapon, but he frowned.

"That's not funny," he snapped.

"Do I appear to be laughing?" Treville shot back. When he spoke again his voice was closer and Aramis instinctively turned his head in the appropriate direction. "Feel that pistol in your hand. You know the weight of it. You know the feel of it. You know how it fires, what the recoil feels like. You _know_ that weapon as intimately as if it were an extension of yourself."

Aramis ran the fingers of his left hand over the barrel, savoring the familiar feeling of smooth, cool metal.

"You've been handling firearms since you were a child. I've seen you clean this very pistol without ever offering it a glance. Do you need to _look_ at it to draw it? Or does your hand find it by memory, by _instinct_?"

Aramis thought it over.

"Instinct I suppose," he finally replied.

"I've been a soldier for most of my life, Aramis. And in all my years, I have never known a man with an instinct for firearms like you have. That instinct will serve you now."

"What am I supposed to do?" Aramis wondered.

"Shoot the target," Treville repeated.

"But I can't see it," Aramis pointed out with a scowl. "How do I aim if I can't see?"

"Is your sight your only sense?" Treville challenged. "Is your sight the only thing linked to your instincts?"

Aramis' brow pinched in confusion again.

"Tell me what you hear," Treville urged.

Aramis took in a breath and let it out slowly, trusting Treville's guidance and focusing on what he could hear. He heard Esmé complaining about something in the stables. He heard Serge cursing in the kitchens. There was…a faint rustling of a curtain in an open window and… _there_ …a soft ding of a bell.

"The bell, what is that? It's not familiar," Aramis stated.

"It's attached to the target," Treville answered. "Now you know where it is."

Aramis turned his head in that direction, but then shook his head.

"What does this matter?" he complained. "Will my enemy wear a bell into battle?"

"Of course not. But have you ever known a man to move in absolute silence?" Treville challenged. "A man must _breathe_ , he must step and shift. These are all things you can _hear_ if you take the time to listen."

Aramis blew out an annoyed breath.

"You know the height of that target," Treville pointed out sternly. "You've fired at it almost daily for _years_. You know where the center is just as you _know_ the average height of a _man_. Now _shoot_ it."

"I can't!"

"Are you not the finest marksman in all of the king's service?" Treville snapped. "Have you not served as such for nearly a decade?"

"I'm blind!" Aramis spat back.

"Perhaps you cannot see, but you are _not_ blind to the world around you. You can _hear_. You can _smell_. You can _feel._ Now stop making excuses and _shoot the damn target!"_

Aramis turned and fired.

He stood, arm extended, breathing harsh.

He didn't ask if he'd hit it. He'd hear the bullet make impact. He couldn't bring himself to ask _where_ he'd hit it.

A hand touched his wrist, urging him to lower the weapon.

"Still the finest shot I've ever seen," Treville told him softly.

Aramis let out a harsh breath.

"Did I…?"

"Dead center," Treville answered quietly, pulling the gun from his grasp. A moment later it's twin was pressed against his palm. "Now do it again."

* * *

 _I love me some Papa Treville. Sometimes coddling is the exact opposite of what people need._

 _More tomorrow!_


	17. Withdrawal

_So sorry for the delay! Life happened and then I broke my arm! :O I probably shouldn't be typing as much as I am but oh well! This one is in the Modern AU again. And is both the story of why Athos got sober and why his code name is Whiskey (as mentioned in a previous one of these  
_

 _Prompt: Withdrawal_

* * *

Athos just paced at first.

A restless prowl around the small room. He told himself that it was just restless energy and worry for Aramis that kept him from relaxing.

It absolutely had nothing to do with his body already yearning for a drink.

He wasn't in complete denial. He knew he had a problem. He knew it wasn't a _good_ thing that he couldn't sleep without a few beers and a whiskey chaser (or three). He knew it was unhealthy that he rarely remembered his off-duty nights because he drank so heavily on them.

But he never got behind the wheel. He never drank on duty. He never hurt _anyone_.

Until today.

After today, he would never drink again.

* * *

Porthos watched Athos pace, restlessly moving around the room. It wasn't a large space. A small, enclosed unit with a window into the hall. It had blinds, but Athos hadn't yet bothered to close them. It looked like every other room in the hospital honestly.

"How bad will it get?" Porthos asked Lemay as their doctor stepped up next to him.

"Hard to say. He said he'd gone out and downed half a bottle of Jack before coming back to have me check him in, so he probably won't start really showing symptoms for a while yet. What happened on this mission?"

Porthos sighed, closing his eyes and seeing Athos and Aramis both covered in blood, Aramis with an oxygen mask and too pale skin.

"Things went sideways…Aramis is in surgery."

Lemay arched a concerned brow.

"I'll get you an update on him," the doctor assured. "And I'll take care of Athos."

"Can he do it? Can he get sober? Athos's been drinking as long as we've known him… It's never been this bad but it's… It's gotten worse lately, I guess."

"He seemed determined," Lemay replied simply. "Which is good because his success here will largely depend on _him_. At the end of it all, he needs to want to be _sober_ more than he wants a drink. I'll do what I can for him, but I won't lock him up. If he asks to leave, I'll try to reason with him but won't restrain him."

Porthos nodded. He didn't doubt Athos motivation. He had seen the look in his eyes when he had realized what this nasty habit had caused.

Athos wouldn't give up.

* * *

 _Hours later…_

* * *

Athos curled on the bed, shaking and fighting the urge to rip put the IV Lemay had taped to his arm.

He closed his eyes and remembered why he was here.

* * *

" _ **I've got eyes on the target,"**_ _Aramis' voice whispered over their comm._ _ **"Outlaw, are you ready to receive the package?"**_

" _ **Affirmative,"**_ _Porthos replied steadily._

 _Athos swallowed, pacing down one alley way and into the next. His part in this was to keep the patrolling guard contained. If anyone stumbled upon Aramis, the whole mission would be blown. This whole thing had to be tied perfectly. Aramis had to take out their target at the exact moment Porthos snatched the package – in this case a spy who wanted to defect – and then cover Porthos retreat from the small army of men who would swiftly try to kill them._

 _Athos paused, wiping a hand across his brow as he leaned against the wall. He glared down at his shaking hands._

 _This mission had taken longer than planned. It was supposed to be 48 hours. It had been 72. Athos hadn't been this long without a drink since basic training. He had, admittedly, been drinking more and more as of late. The time it took for him to start yearning for another drink was getting shorter and shorter. It had never been a problem before now._

" _ **Diablo, I've got heat signatures closing in on your position."**_ _Treville's voice snapped across the line._ _ **"Rapier, deal with it."**_

 _Athos frowned, glancing around. He'd been patrolling the area, but now wasn't sure exactly how far he'd wandered from Aramis' position. He retraced his steps down the alley and looked around again._

" _ **Rapier, get to Diablo's position,"**_ _Treville barked._

 _Athos took off at a run._

" _ **I hear them on the stairs,"**_ _Aramis hissed._

" _ **How long before we can execute?"**_ _Porthos snapped back._

" _ **Twenty seconds,"**_ _Treville replied sharply._ _ **"Rapier, what's your status?"**_

 _Athos was running, scanning the buildings, looking for the one that Aramis had chosen as his roost. How had he wandered so far? He finally spotted it two blocks away._

" _ **Rapier, where are you?"**_ _Porthos growled._

" _Too far," Athos whispered to himself as he sprinted towards the building._

" _ **They're on the roof,"**_ _Aramis' voice whispered across the line._ _ **"Haven't found me yet."**_

" _ **Abort,"**_ _Treville snapped._ _ **"Diablo, abort!"**_

" _ **Negative,"**_ _Aramis hissed._ _ **"This is too important. I can still make the shot. Outlaw be ready. Top, on your mark."**_

" _ **Ten seconds,"**_ _Treville stated sharply._

 _Athos sprinted, feeling his stomach twist and head start to spin._

" _ **Five."**_

 _There was a shout across the line and then the familiar sound of one of Aramis' Desert Eagles discharging._

 _Silence fell._

" _ **Execute."**_

 _A shot from Aramis' rifle cracked through the stillness, followed swiftly by several more. Then it went abruptly silent._

" _ **Package secure,"**_ _Porthos reported a few tense moments later._ _ **"That was a little closer than I found comforting, but we got away clean enough."**_

 _Athos hit the stairwell, sprinting up. A wave of dizziness caught him off guard and he had to stop, bracing his hands on his knees._

" _ **Diablo, report!"**_ _Treville snapped._

 _There was grunting and cursing over the line and then a very out of breath response._

" _ **A bit..."**_ _another curse,_ _ **"busy."**_

" _ **Rapier, where the hell are you?"**_ _Porthos demanded._

 _Athos started moving again._

" _I'm almost there."_

 _He burst out onto the rooftop with his gun up. But only eerie silence greeted him. He rounded the enclosed stairwell to where Aramis had been perched and blew out a harsh breath._

 _There were four bodies collapsed all in the same general area and only one of them was moving._

 _Athos quickly covered the last few steps to Aramis, who was struggling to drag himself away from the other three bodies and leaving a trail of blood in his wake. His rifle was knocked over and hanging precariously half over the ledge, such lack of care spoke to how desperate the fight had been._

" _Nice of you to show up," Aramis teased with a breathy chuckle. His words bore no heat, but Athos felt struck anyway._

" _ **What's his status?"**_ _Porthos demanded._ _ **"Is he alright?"**_

" _We need…" Athos had to pause to swallow moisture into his suddenly dry throat when he saw the amount of blood seeping through Aramis' fingers where he had a hand pressed to a wound low on his back. "We need emergency evac. Diablo is down."_

" _Don't be so dramatic," Aramis scolded with a grin and jerk of his chin at the other three bodies. "Those three are much worse off."_

 _Athos glared him into silence and Aramis just shrugged, collapsing back against the rooftop while Athos dug a pressure bandage out of his pack and replaced Aramis hand with it. When he drew his own hands back they were coated in blood – Aramis' blood. He watched the marksman blink slowly, gaze a bit less focused than it bad been a moment ago._

" _Hey, stay with me." Athos snapped, sharply tapping Aramis' cheek. "Stay awake!"_

* * *

Athos stared across the darkened room and brought one of his hands up into his field of vision. He could still see the blood if he looked hard enough. Aramis' blood.

Another wave of nausea hit, and he groaned, tucking his arms around his waist to ride it out. He'd already vomited out anything of substance an hour ago.

But he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't give up. He would accept whatever pain came with this. It was no less than he deserved. And there was something so much more important he was fighting for.

* * *

" _What the hell happened?" Porthos shouted, rounding on him once they whisked a terrifyingly pale Aramis away from the evac chopper that had been sent for them. "Where_ _ **were**_ _you?"_

 _Athos shook his head, fruitlessly trying to wipe his hands on his pants. But the blood had started to dry. It wouldn't be so easily removed._

 _Porthos snatched him up by his shirt, dragging him in close. The larger man's eyes bore into his angrily._

" _I can see your hands shaking. You're sweating and fidgety. How long's it been, eh? How long since your last drink?"_

 _Athos met his gaze squarely but couldn't find the words to respond._

 _Porthos shook his head in disgust and shoved him away._

" _You choose, Athos. You choose right now which is more important – that poison or us." Porthos pointed towards the doors Aramis had been rushed through only moments ago. "He counted on you..._ _ **I**_ _counted on you to have his back. He's in there because_ _ **you**_ _couldn't do your job! You aren't going in the field with him again unless you're stone cold sober. So_ _ **choose**_ _."_

 _Then Porthos turned his back on him and walked away._

* * *

Athos had found the nearest liquor store and downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels before he even knew what he was doing. When he'd realized he was standing in a dirty alley, bottle in hand, nearly shaking with the relief of finally getting a drink, reality had crashed down hard on his shoulders. He should have been with his brothers. He should have been with Porthos, waiting for news on Aramis.

He'd thrown the bottle across the alley, watched it shatter, and made his way back to the hospital. He'd walked straight up to Lemay and asked to be checked in.

He had made his choice.

* * *

Porthos jumped when a hand settled on his shoulder. He blinked up blearily at Treville.

"Aramis is out of surgery and awake. He's asking for you."

Porthos stood up so quickly he nearly lost his balance. Treville steadied him and then pat his shoulder in comfort.

"How's Athos?" Porthos asked.

Treville sighed.

"He'll get through it," the older man promised. "He's strong and determined."

Porthos nodded, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

"Aramis is waiting," Treville urged. Porthos didn't need to be told again.

He found their sniper curled onto his side, propped on pillows. His eyes were closed, but as soon as Porthos stepped into the room, they opened.

"Hey, how're you feelin'?" Porthos greeted. He grabbed a chair from against the wall and carried it over to the bed, so he could sit.

"Like I got stabbed…or shot…which one was it?" Aramis replied groggily. His usually sharp gaze was dulled with pain medication and lingering anesthesia.

"Stabbed," Porthos informed him.

Aramis hummed an acknowledgment and blinked heavily at him.

"Where's Athos?" he asked eventually.

Porthos sighed.

"He's checked himself in with Lemay."

Aramis frowned in confusion.

"Was he hurt?" he asked, worry creasing his brow. He started shifting like he was going to try to rise, so Porthos leaned forward, pressing a calming hand against his arm.

"He's not hurt. He's…well he's…trying to get sober."

Aramis still looked confused for a moment, but then his muddled thoughts seemed to align.

"He is?" the sniper asked in surprise.

Porthos nodded.

"Just…for now? Or forever?" Aramis went on.

"He was talking like it was going to be a permanent change," Porthos answered.

"But why?" Aramis asked in bewilderment.

Porthos rubbed wearily at his eyes. He never enjoyed talking to a medicated Aramis. It was always jarring to see the sniper's usually sharp, quick mind slowed and befuddled.

"You, mostly. A bit of me, perhaps."

"Me?"

Porthos met his gaze.

"A bit of a reckoning for him, I think, finding you bleeding out on that rooftop."

When Aramis still looked confused, Porthos narrowed his eyes.

"Do you even remember what happened?" he wondered.

Aramis' eyebrow twitched.

"It's a bit…hazy," he admitted with a bit of an embarrassed grin. "Damn pain meds…always muddle things up."

Porthos grinned a little in response, but sobered quickly as he recalled the events that brought them here.

"He was supposed to be covering you, but he was out of position. He got distracted with…" Porthos shrugged helplessly. "I don't know exactly what happened. But he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Three men cornered you on the rooftop. You shot one with your handgun, but had to cover _me_ and the package. That allowed the other two to get the drop on you."

Aramis was frowning now, gaze reflective as he seemed to laboriously shift through his drug-weighted thoughts.

"When Athos got there, it was all over. You'd taken them out, but were bleeding heavily. You were unconscious by the time I got there."

Aramis' gaze shifted around the room, taking in the various monitors before he looked back at Porthos.

"You blamed him for this?" Aramis realized.

Porthos sighed and rubbed at his eyes again.

"He should have had your back, Aramis."

"What does any of this have to do with his drinking?"

Porthos stared at him, realizing belatedly that Aramis hadn't seen the signs Porthos had when they'd gotten off the chopper. He'd been too busy being unconscious.

"He had the shakes, 'Mis. Sweats. Twitches. All the signs of withdrawal. He didn't have your back because he got distracted by how long it'd been since he had a drink."

Aramis' eyes widened in surprise.

"When we got here and they took you away to surgery and I realized what was going on…" Porthos shook his head. "I nearly laid him out right there."

"But you didn't," Aramis questioned curiously.

"I wanted to," Porthos admitted. "But the look in his eyes…he knew what he'd done. He knew what his addiction to that poison had cost. So I gave him a choice. The drinking or us. I told him he couldn't have both, not anymore."

"And?" Aramis prodded.

"He chose us."

* * *

Athos cleared his throat, rapping lightly on the door that led to Aramis' hospital room.

"It's not as if it's got a lock," came the chuckling response. Athos reached for the handle. "Honestly, Porthos, I don't know why you're even kno…oh…"

Athos stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring at Aramis, who was sprawled on his side, propped on pillows, messing with a tablet.

"I thought you were Porthos," Aramis pointed out needlessly.

Athos just shook his head. He wasn't Porthos...obviously.

Aramis assessed him with that calculating look Athos had only ever seen snipers use.

"Are you…?" Aramis trailed off with a vague wave of his hand.

"Three days sober? Yes." Athos answered. "Lemay told me I could walk around, stretch my legs."

As if cued, his legs trembled and Athos swiftly took the seat next to the bed. Aramis eyed him knowingly but didn't comment.

"How are you?" Athos asked, looking the marksman over. His color was back and his gaze sharp, which meant he'd talked them into giving him the weaker painkillers. Aramis didn't like having his senses dulled.

"Alright," Aramis replied easily. "Ready to get out of here."

Athos grinned a little. Aramis wouldn't be _Aramis_ if he didn't grow quickly restless with inactivity.

"How are _you_?" Aramis wondered.

Athos sighed.

"Getting there," he replied.

Aramis nodded slowly, watching him closely.

"I want to apologize to you Aramis."

"You don't have to," the sniper replied immediately.

"I _want_ to," Athos countered.

"Athos…"

"You have always been too forgiving, Aramis. I will _allow_ you to forgive me this, if _you_ allow me to apologize."

Aramis sighed and waved him on and Athos cleared his throat. He met the marksman's gaze and was wholly unsurprised to find no judgement there, no recrimination, only the same warmth and brotherhood there had always been. Seeing it made the Athos confession flow easily from his lips.

"I didn't realize how bad it had gotten. Or perhaps had refused to realize," he began. "I told myself that it wasn't affecting my job. I wasn't being irresponsible. No-one was getting hurt so why shouldn't I continue drinking? Only ad time passed I continued to drink more and more. And the time I could last between drinks got less and less."

Athos paused, running a hand over his mouth and down his chin. He forced himself to hold Aramis' steady gaze as he went on.

"I knew things were bad going into the op that night, but I _did_ think I would be fine to do the job. I never would have put you or Porthos at risk if I thought myself truly compromised."

"I know, Athos. Of course, I know that," Aramis assured fervently.

Athos let out a shuddering breath.

"I overestimated myself," he admitted. "I got distracted, caught up in my own head and strayed out of position. I didn't even… I had no idea how far I had gone until getting _back_ meant your life or death."

Athos closed his eyes and shook his head, hating himself for what his addiction had cost – for what it had _almost_ cost.

"If you had died…" Athos whispered in horror.

"I didn't though," Aramis reminded.

"Because you're _you._ Because you're the toughest son of a bitch I've ever known. You survived because of _you_ , Aramis. But you nearly died because of _me._ "

Athos leaned forward, gaze earnest.

"The drinking is over. I will _never_ let you down in such a way again."

"I know you won't," Aramis replied sincerely, his dark eyes speaking clearly of forgiveness already given.

In the face of it, Athos was stunned to feel his eyes start stinging.

He didn't deserve a brother like Aramis. Few, in fact, ever could.

"I'm thinking of changing my code name," Athos announced suddenly, desperate to regain some sort of equilibrium.

"To what? Teetotaler?" Aramis asked with a snort. When Athos merely fixed him with a glare Aramis shrugged. "Too soon?"

"Whiskey," Athos corrected mildly.

Aramis' brow furrowed in confusion. They both knew it was Athos' drink of choice.

"So that I never forget and never go back."

Aramis held his gaze and nodded.

"Whiskey, Outlaw, and Diablo…I like it."

* * *

 _I'll try to do another one soon :) I fully intend to complete all 31 whumptober prompts even though whumptober has passed :D_


	18. Flashback

_Hey look, I'm alive! So I told you I would keep doing these till I hit all 31 and I WILL! I've not abandoned this! Life has just been happening and I've been CRAZY busy! But here we are! The prompt for this one is: Flashback_

* * *

This was not going well.

Aramis spat blood into the dirt as he dug his hands into the ground and pushed his torso up for what felt like the hundredth time. He blinked away the stain of red trying to muck up his vision and cast a glance around at his adversaries.

This, in fact, was going rather poorly.

The team of bandits that had set upon him as he made the lonely journey back to Paris had most assuredly gotten more than they bargained for. He may have seemed an easy target alone on the open road, but now no less than four of them were dead on the ground. The six that remained seemed increasingly intent to forgo merely robbing him and set on killing him instead. Aramis, however, stubbornly refused to allow them such satisfaction.

"Just stay down!" one of the ruffians demanded in frustration as Aramis climbed to his feet once more. He held his sword brandished steadily before him though his breathing was shallow and his posture swaying. But as always, where his strength began to fail, pure stubbornness took its place.

"Unfortunately for all of you, I've never been good at following orders," Aramis replied with a rakish grin. He waved the tip of his sword at them lazily. "Who's next?"

As it turned out, they had no desire to politely take turns. Instead, they converged as one and though he killed another one, he went crashing to the dirt himself as well, breath rushing sharply from his lungs.

The jarring impact brought to mind another such occurrence, many years ago with an opponent no more forgiving than that which he faced now.

* * *

" _Get up, boy!"_

 _Aramis wheezed out a breath, watching the dirt puff out in a cloud of dust beneath his face. A boot nudged his hip roughly. Not quite a kick - a warning._

" _On your feet, Rene!" his father snapped._

 _Aramis didn't reply with the snarky rejoinder that came to mind. To do so, he had learned, would only invite harsh reprimand. Instead, he focused on trying to get his arms under him. They shook as he braced his palms on the ground. Too many hours of drills and sword play had left his muscles weak and tired._

 _A presence loomed over him._

" _Shall I help you, Rene?" his father asked. There was an air of false kindness in his voice. It was a tone Aramis had learned not to trust within days of coming here._

 _Even so,_ _ **Please…help me...**_ _his mind whispered traitorously as his shaking arms threatened to drop him back in the dirt. But his mouth responded,_

" _No."_

 _His father stepped back, cold approval and impatient expectation in his eyes._

" _As it should be. If you can't stand on your own, you don't deserve to stand at all."_

 _Familiar words. Cruel ones. Aramis wasn't sure they were true, but the truth of them didn't matter. Here, they were law._

" _Only the weak remain in the dust and dirt," his father lectured as Aramis forced his torso up and pulled his knees under him. "Are you_ _ **weak**_ _, Rene?"_

 _Weak. A word spat with such revulsion. It was an unacceptable quality here. There was only a place for the strong._

" _Are you?" his father demanded when Aramis remained hunched on his knees, palms still in the dirt, for a moment to long._

 _Was he weak? Perhaps he had been once, before he came here. But not now._

" _No," he snapped back, climbing to his feet and swaying where he stood. He drew in a steadying breath and with all the bravado a 12-year-old could muster, he lifted his sword once again._

* * *

Aramis smiled down at the blood pooling in the dirt beneath his mouth and pushed off the ground once again.

The five that remained stared at him in awed disbelief as he rose before them.

 _Are you weak, Rene?_

His father had ensured he never would be. A gift, in a way – however cruel in nature. Though his brothers had always disagreed – Porthos the most vocally.

As if conjured by his thoughts, a familiar broad silhouette took form from around the bend in the road. Aramis blinked, trying to clear his wavering vision as two more figures joined the first, moving quickly towards them on horseback. Something of his confusion must have shown on his face because one of the bandits turned.

"Musketeers!" the man shouted in warning and the bandits scattered.

" _I'm_ a Musketeer," Aramis pointed out sourly as they fled. Perhaps the three men approaching did cut a more intimidating figure than he did all alone. But his pride still felt a bit stung.

Porthos was the first to reach him, sliding off his horse before Fort could even come to a full stop. A large hand immediately braced Aramis' elbow, leaving him wondering if he looked as ready to collapse as he felt.

"What are you doing here?" Aramis asked, blinking at his brother in awed surprise.

"You think I don't just _know_ when you're in trouble by now?" Porthos replied warmly with deep worry in his dark eyes. They all had such instincts for each other, Aramis knew. Something to credit to the bonds that held them together.

"He had a feeling," Athos explained as he slid down from his own horse, "so we took a ride."

"Don't let him fool you." D'Artagnan's voice rose up next. "He was the one that hadn't taken his eyes off the gate in an hour."

Aramis glanced around Porthos to see the Gascon slowing his own horse to a stop, Esmé's reigns loosely held in his hand.

"She found us on the road," the youngest man explained. "Informed us as to the urgency of your situation."

Aramis couldn't help but grin. His beautiful, loyal Esmé.

"She's always lookin' out for you," Porthos commented with a chuckle. "Does a better job of it than _you_ do."

"Anyone would do a better job than him," Athos teased as he stepped up to Aramis' other side. "Are you alright?"

 _No._

"Fine and fit," he replied with a wide, bloody grin that made the rising bruises on his face pull painfully.

Neither he nor Porthos mentioned that the larger man was essentially holding him up.

The fondly exasperated grin that turned up the corners of Athos' mouth suggested he knew anyway.

" _If you need help to stand? We'll be there to prop you up."_ Porthos had told him once. How many times had that promise been honored over the years? Too many to be healthy, Aramis was sure. But it did leave one thing certain in his mind and heart.

His father had been wrong.

It was not weakness to rely on others. Instead, he had found that _within_ brotherhood lay unmatched strength.

* * *

 _See you again soon for more!_


	19. Panic Attack

_Sorry this has been so long in coming! I promise, I still plan on finishing all the whumptober prompts! This one, as you'll see really decided it wanted to be a long one haha. More about my reasoning behind the direction I went here at the end. All you need to know now is that we are in the Modern AU for this one :)  
_

 _Prompt: Panic Attack_

* * *

Aramis drummed his fingers on the arm of the large, overstuffed chair he'd sprawled himself in. He watched as his therapist, Dr. Constance Bonacieux, finished a call at her desk and dropped the phone back into the cradle. She stood, greeting him with a smile as she rounded her desk and crossed the office.

"Thanks for fitting me in," Aramis offered, drumming his fingers restlessly again.

"I've always got time for my favorite patient," she replied with a teasing grin as she crossed the office and took a seat in the chair opposite him. "Especially now that I've finally got you to actually _call_ me when you need me."

She blew out a breath and sat back in her chair, intelligent, assessing gaze settling on him.

"So you had an episode?" she began warmly.

Aramis sighed and skimmed his hand up into his hair, unable to help the scowl that followed. It had been almost a year and his hair had grown enough to cover the scar on his head – a furrow carved by the bullet that should have, that _almost_ , ended his life. But it was still so short – too short. He hated it. He hated that the lack of length was a constant reminder of…of _everything_.

"Aramis," Constance prompted when he remained silent too long.

He snapped his gaze up to hers briefly and then shifted it away clearing his throat and dropping his hand back down to the arm of the chair. Drumming his fingers again.

"It was last night…or this morning rather," he replied.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Were you sleeping? Did a dream spur it?"

Aramis grimaced guiltily. Constance sighed.

"We've talked about this," she reminded. "Avoiding sleep isn't healthy _or_ helpful."

"It's not been…" Aramis scrubbed his hand through his hair again, scowled and crossed his arms instead. "It's been worse lately. As bad as the beginning," he admitted. "I didn't want to sleep."

Constance's eyes sharpened in concern, but she didn't force the issue. His poor sleeping habits were a familiar struggle and not one he imagined would be solved any time soon.

"So where were you when it happened?" she asked instead. "Home?"

"Out on my motorcycle."

Constance glared at him.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You went out on that death trap while sleep deprived?" she asked with a scowl.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Constance, I've been riding motorcycles since I was sixteen. I've owned _this_ one since I was eighteen. I've ridden it with _far_ worse than sleep deprivation and been just fine."

Constance pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and shook her head.

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

Aramis grinned.

"I thought you wanted me to open up."

She glared up at him through her fingers and then lifted her head so she could meet his gaze properly again.

"You're redirecting," she accused gently.

Aramis cut his gaze away and blew out a breath.

" _You_ called _me_ , Aramis," Constance reminded.

"Why was that again?" he shot back.

Her eyebrow arched.

"Hurtful."

He grimaced.

"Sorry."

"It's alright. I forgive you. Better you lash out at me than one of the others," she assured.

Aramis' lips quirked into a fond smile.

"They always forgive me too," he stated quietly.

She let him have a moment of reprieve before tilting her head.

"What triggered it?" she asked, pulling his focus back to why he was here.

He stared out her office window for a long moment and then brought his gaze back around to focus on his knees, hands tightening into fists under his crossed arms.

"It was… It was the headlights I think. Someone had their high beams on and it was…" he trailed off, brow furrowing as he stared down at his jeans clad legs. "It was…" He blinked and there was darkness around him, bright beams from flashlights cut through it, swinging dangerously close to him, threatening to expose him where he hid. He smelled smoke and blood. He felt the cold curling around him, sinking into his bones and he shivered.

"Aramis."

He barely let himself breath, hunkered further behind the tree that concealed him and brushed his finger over the trigger on his rifle. Only two rounds left – then he'd only have his pistol and his knife.

"Aramis, don't let it pull you under. Come on now," Constance's voice broke through the silence that had pressed in on him.

He blinked and the world righted itself. He drew in a sharp breath and blinked again, swallowing moisture into his suddenly dry throat.

"Aramis?"

He looked over to the window again, suddenly feeling his heart pounding in his chest and the strain of his lungs to draw in air that seemed too thin. He hadn't been able to breath that night either, not by the end. The bullet in his chest had made such a thing nearly impossible. Without meaning to, he flattened a hand against the right side of his chest, pressing over the young scar that was hidden by his shirt. Another bullet that should have killed him that night. Another bullet that somehow hadn't.

Constance suddenly appeared in his line of vision, crouching down between him and the window. She was a full arms' length away and made no effort to touch him.

"Focus," she coached gently.

He did as she instructed, calling on the various breathing techniques she'd taught him to combat panic attacks. It only worked if he caught it early enough. If he'd fully spiraled there was rarely any coming back – there was only pushing through it. This time, at least, he pulled himself back. He calmed his breathing and with it, his racing heart slowed.

"Good," she praised, rising again and moving back to her seat.

It took him a few more minutes before he felt steady enough to meet her gaze.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly, an embarrassed flush coloring his neck.

She arched a brow at him.

"We've talked about this too," she reminded softly. "You've nothing to apologize for, not with this…not with _any_ of it."

He grimaced and looked away again. Another point of contention between them – blame and where it lay.

He heard her sigh.

"I have something new I want you to try," she commented suddenly.

This drew his gaze back to hers. She reached for a pen and her notepad on the table next to her chair and quickly jotted something down. She tore the top paper off and held it out to him.

"I want you to go to this address and tell them I sent you. You don't have to do anything you don't _want_ to do, but I think you may find something that will help."

"Where is this?" he asked as he stared down at the paper, the address was unfamiliar.

"You'll see," she deflected. Then she leaned forward, meeting his gaze earnestly. "I know you've been frustrated lately. You feel as if you've taken a step backwards. But you've not moved backwards, Aramis," she insisted firmly. "Having these attacks doesn't mean you've regressed. You'll have moments like these for the rest of your life – you've spent the last year developing the tools to cope with them. This is just one more tool."

He chewed the inside of his lip, holding her gaze, and then dipped his head in acceptance.

* * *

Porthos stared up at the sign above the entrance, glancing over at Aramis when his friend remained stoically silent beside him.

 _Sylvie's Rebels_

 _Therapy and Service Dogs_

"She really wants you to adopt a dog?" Athos stated doubtfully as the three of them stood on the sidewalk.

Aramis shoved his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket, rolling his shoulders forward so that the hood of the zip-up sweatshirt he wore beneath it settled more snuggly around his neck.

"A therapy dog," Porthos clarified. "I think she's right. It might be good."

Porthos had arrived back at the apartment he shared with Aramis to see his brother staring at a google search for this address. A few needling questions later, Aramis disclosed Constance's instructions with only a little reluctance.

Porthos thought it was a wonderful idea. He'd spent half the night researching therapy dogs while Aramis amused himself with a movie marathon. Aramis always preferred the classics – Casablanca, Rear Window, and the like. Porthos, sensing another sleepless night impending, had stayed up with him as long as he could manage. He'd fought his own exhaustion valiantly until he fell asleep on the couch, laptop still open on his knees, various tabs about the benefits of therapy dogs for those with PTSD open in the browser.

He'd woken near 5 am to find Aramis coming _back_ from a run, soaked through from the pouring rain outside.

Yes, Porthos thought this was perhaps Constance's best idea yet. Even if Aramis was not nearly so enthusiastic.

"I can barely keep _myself_ fed and watered," the sniper grumbled. "How does she expect me to look after another living creature?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Porthos teased with a nudge of his elbow against Aramis'.

"Dogs pee everywhere."

"Only if you don't walk them. You like walks. I bet you could teach it to go on your runs with you too," Porthos countered.

"They shed."

" _You_ shed," Porthos pointed out, ruffling a hand through Aramis' hair, only just now starting to get any sort of length to it again. It had been mostly shaved to give the medics access to his headwound after the Savoy Operation. Aramis had shaved the rest of it on an angry whim while still in the hospital.

He glared at Porthos and shoved his offending hand away.

"They drool on everything."

"So does Porthos when he's sleeping," Athos jumped in with a wry quirk to his lips.

Porthos reached around Aramis to shove Athos' arm.

Aramis just scowled.

The two men on either side of him sobered.

"She said to keep an open mind," Porthos reminded quietly.

"She's not led you wrong yet," Athos added.

Aramis glared at both of them, never one to appreciate things like _reason_ and _common sense_ being used against him. Eventually, he blew out a breath.

"Fine."

* * *

They found themselves in an open waiting area, staring through a window at a large indoor play area full of various sizes and breeds of dogs. Athos glanced at Aramis, concerned by the tense line of his shoulders and the hands fisted in his jacket pockets. The sniper was staring through the window, face set in an impassive, unreadable mask. Athos exchanged a worried glance with Porthos behind Aramis' head. Porthos twitched an eyebrow helplessly and shifted a half step closer to Aramis, shoulder lightly brushing his. Athos was pleased when Aramis' shoulders lost a fraction of their tension in response. Movement beyond them caught Athos eye and he shifted his gaze to watch a young woman with a beautiful brown complexion emerge from an adjoining office.

"Hi," a she greeted them. Her eyes were dark and warm and her smile kind as she approached them. "I'm Sylvie, how can I help you?"

For a moment, Athos could only stare at her. But then, when Aramis didn't remove his glare from the window and Porthos was too busy smirking knowingly at Athos, he cleared his throat, stepping forward to shake her hand.

"Athos. Dr. Constance Bonacieux referred my friend to you," he explained, motioning towards Aramis.

Sylvie immediately turned her focus to Aramis, smiling in warm greeting and with a certain sort of _knowing_ in her eyes that immediately assured Athos his brother would be in good hands with her.

"Aramis?" she guessed. When this finally gained her Aramis' attention, grudging as it seemed to be, she went on. "Constance told me to expect you. She'll be pleased, she thought it would take you a few more days of obstinance to get here."

Aramis' lips twitched and he rolled his eyes in sheepish amusement.

"Constance has no faith in me," he muttered jokingly.

Sylvie laughed softly, but her eyes were serious.

"I think it's quite the opposite, otherwise she would not have sent you to me."

Aramis appeared struck silent by the compliment. Sylvie smiled a bit wider and then motioned him towards the door that led to the play area.

"If you'll come with me, Aramis, I think we can find someone perfect for you."

If Sylvie noticed the sudden flair of alarm in Aramis' gaze, she didn't react. But the sharp look their youngest sent to Porthos was hard to miss. It was one of those moments that Athos could clearly see their childhood in them – the years of looking to each other for protection when there was no one else.

Porthos, hardly needing actual eye contact to predict what Aramis needed, was already stepping forward with a wide, disarming smile.

"Mind if we tag along? 'Mis and I are flat mates so probably best to make sure I pass muster for whoever we end up with. And Athos is on the couch half the time so might as well bring him along too."

And just like that, Sylvie was faced with the three of them – as a unit. The take one, take all mentality of their friendship had been part of them for so long, it always felt natural to present themselves as united.

Sylvie, however, didn't miss a beat.

"Of course! You're all welcome to be part of the process." She led the way into the play area.

Athos started after her, but glanced back when he sensed Aramis not following. Porthos slung an arm over Aramis' shoulders and pulled him along.

"Come on, 'Mis, maybe one of them will think Athos is a tree," he whispered with a wicked grin.

Athos rolled his eyes but didn't respond, not when the comment had Aramis grinning wickedly in return and allowing Porthos to pull him into the play area.

Sylvie was waiting patiently just inside, seemingly unperturbed by the delay.

"All of our little rebels have been through extensive therapy or service training." She reached out to touch various dogs in greeting as she moved before pausing and turning to focus completely on Aramis. "The ones with blue collars are the true therapy dogs, trained to offer support for those with PTSD, anxiety, depression, and so on. Feel free to wander and interact with them. I've found that people will often find the right dog all on their own," she finished with a warm smile.

Athos watched Aramis nod, though his hands remained stuffed in his pockets and he appeared no more open to the process than he had when they arrived.

"Thank you," Athos offered in his place.

Sylvie smiled, not looking at all offended by Aramis' reticence.

"I'll be just over here if you need anything," she told them before moving away.

Athos watched her go and then forced his attention back to his brothers.

Porthos was speaking lowly to Aramis, arm still slung around his shoulders, obviously trying to get him to relax. Such intervention had been increasingly necessary over the last weeks as they steadily crept closer to the anniversary of the Savoy Operation. Aramis' PTSD had flared up again, leaving him tense, irritable and exhausted. Athos had found himself sleeping on the couch in their apartment most nights, just to calm his own concern over the whole thing. Aramis seemed to appreciate the company when he couldn't – or wouldn't – sleep. And Athos' presence gave Porthos a chance to have a break and get some much-needed rest of his own.

"What about this one?" Porthos suggested, giving Aramis' shoulders a shake and then releasing him. He knelt next to a large German Shepherd that seemed nearly as big as Porthos when he was crouched down as he was. "What's your name, eh?" Porthos wondered, checking the blue collar. "Fort – that's a nice strong name for a nice strong boy," he crooned as he scratched the large animal's ears.

Athos looked down when something cold and wet pressed against his hand. An ornery looking animal peered up at him with its tongue hanging loosely from it's mouth. Its embroidered collar identified it as 'Roger'. Athos politely pet its head and tried to withdraw. But then Roger started licking the back of his hand until he pet him again.

"Persistent fellow, aren't you," he muttered, though he couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Aramis watched both his brothers dote on the two dogs that had caught their attention. He sighed and pulled his hands from his pockets, so he could cross his arms over his chest instead. He watched the one called Fort lick Porthos' cheek, sending the man into a fit of chuckling.

Aramis pulled his gaze away, casting a cursory glance around the room. His eyes instinctively found each exit, clocking the distance to them. The door at the back of the room likely led directly outside – that was the best path out, but it was probably fenced as some sort of outdoor play area for the dogs. Not a concern, he knew how to scale a fence.

He shifted his attention to the door they'd come in. It was closer, but led into the lobby, which had large windows at the front. There was no sufficient cover there, but that's where they'd parked Athos' SUV. Though…if it came to it, Porthos _had_ taught him how to hotwire a car…

A flash of brown caught his peripheral and his head turned to try and catch it.

There, sitting alone in the corner, was a small brown Labrador.

Aramis cocked his head at the animal, curious as to why it was off by itself.

The dog cocked its head right back at him.

Unwittingly, Aramis' mouth turned up at the corner.

The dog twitched, mouth dropping open in a loose version of a dog-smile before snapping closed again.

Aramis found his feet moving, taking him slowly closer.

The dog twitched again, obviously fighting the urge to match his approach with its own.

Aramis tilted his head again – the dog mirrored him.

He tilted it the other way – mimicked again.

Aramis couldn't help it, he breathed a chuckle.

The dog's mouth gaped open, tongue lolling out excitedly.

Aramis slowed to a stop, still a few paces away.

He slowly lowered himself to a crouch, bracing his elbows on his knees and watching the animal curiously.

The dog stared back.

"All right," he sighed, slowly turning one palm upward in invitation, "come on then."

* * *

"What do you think of him, 'Mis?" Porthos asked, glancing over his shoulder only to double take when he found Aramis _gone_. "Bloody hell…"

This cued Athos, who had been distracted with another dog. The older man's eyebrow arched curiously, obviously just as surprised as Porthos was to find Aramis missing.

"I hate it when he does that," Athos muttered. Aramis' ability to move silently had been a great source of amusement for the sniper, and annoyance for them as he rather enjoyed sneaking up on them or _away_.

"He's there," Porthos jerked his head towards the corner of the room. They both watched curiously as Aramis crouched, silently staring at a small brown Lab sitting a few paces away.

Athos turned and motioned to catch Sylvie's attention. She approached him with a smile.

"What's that one?" Athos asked, pointing at the dog that had captured Aramis' attention.

Sylvie turned to look and smiled softly.

"Oh, she's a sweet one. She's a bit anti-social though so she may not be quite ready for adoption."

Porthos joined them, cocking a brow curiously.

"She won't approach anyone," Sylvie explained. "Even when called, she's very wary. She was rescued from a pretty awful situation a as a puppy." Sylvie glanced back to where Aramis and the dog were. "She's taken well to therapy training though and we're hoping with a bit more time and train- _mon Dieu._ " She stopped suddenly, eyes widening in shock.

Athos and Porthos both followed her gaze and watched as the little brown dog trotted up to Aramis, nuzzling her head into his offered hand.

Sylvie stared, eyes wide with disbelief.

"She's never…" trailing off, Sylvie pulled a radio off her belt. "John, you've got to see this," she relayed over the device.

They all watched Aramis drop one knee to the ground, allowing the dog to press in closer, her nose stretching up to nudge against his jaw. Porthos and Athos could only watch in awe as Aramis huffed a chuckle, seeming to lean into the pup even as she huddled closer.

Another man appeared through the entry and when Sylvie motioned towards the pair, John's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Look at that," John muttered, shaking his head in shock.

"Well," Sylvie was smiling brightly as she turned back to face Athos and Porthos, "it seems she was just waiting for the right person."

"What's her name?" Porthos asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the first _real_ smile he'd seen from Aramis in weeks.

Sylvie, too, seemed unable to keep her gaze from going back to the pair.

"Esmé. Her name is Esmé."

* * *

Porthos hefted the 50lb bag of dog food out of the back of Athos' SUV and onto his shoulder. He turned toward the sidewalk and glanced over to the patch of grass that served as their unit's 'front yard'. He couldn't help but grin as he watched Aramis toss a brand-new tennis ball up only for Esmé to plucked it from the air effortlessly.

The dog ran back to Aramis and deposited the slobbery ball back into his hand, taking a moment to enthusiastically lick Aramis' face when he crouched to meet her. Aramis laughed lightly, returning her affection with generous ear scratches.

Porthos grinned wider as he passed them, carrying the dog food into their unit. It was a fourth floor walkup – but with private roof access which boasted amazing sightlines according to Aramis – and Porthos' room had a balcony so he couldn't complain.

He entered the open door of the apartment to see Athos carefully setting up an auto-refilling water bowl next to a currently empty food bowl. He had already arranged the new dog bed in the living area – although if Porthos new Aramis, Esmé would _never_ be relegated to the floor – and filled a new basket with all the new toys they had picked out.

"Never knew you were one for interior design," Porthos teased as he unceremoniously dropped the bag of food onto the counter.

"Left to you two, she would eat straight from the bag with the toilet bowl for water," Athos shot back.

Porthos rolled his eyes but didn't bother offering a defense.

"I don't think she needed _quite_ so many toys, though," Athos went on as he nodded towards the overflowing basket next to Esmé's bed.

Porthos shrugged.

"Aramis was excited."

"Porthos, _you_ picked out most of them," Athos replied with a chuckle.

" _I_ was excited," Porthos defended. "He's really quite taken with her, isn't he?" he went on with a wide grin. "I haven't seen him smile so much in _weeks_."

Athos' lips quirked into an answering smile.

"I just hope she helps him," the older man replied quietly.

They both looked towards the front door when Esmé came bounding in with Aramis a few steps behind.

"That wasn't a fair race," Aramis scolded her with mock sternness. "You went on 2 not 3 – c _heating._ "

Esmé's response was to bound cheerfully back towards him and all but tackle him when he crouched to meet her.

"Fine, I forgive you," Aramis allowed with a laugh. "But I want a rematch."

"I _think_ she already has," Porthos replied to Athos before striding into the living room. "Who wants pizza?!"

* * *

Aramis turned off the TV when the credits started rolling for the movie and checked on the others. Porthos was sprawled out on the other end of the couch from Aramis, stretched a bit diagonally with one knee hooked up on the cushion.

He was dead asleep, one hand a solid weight on Aramis' ankle where he'd obtrusively propped his feet against the other man's ribs as retribution for something he couldn't even remember now. Porthos had then refused to allow Aramis to withdraw his feet for the rest of the night in retaliation. His grip was loose now, and Aramis was able to slowly reclaim them.

Nestled between him and the back of the couch was Esmé. She lifted her head from his chest when she noticed his movement and after a twitch of his chin towards the kitchen, she crawled over him, jumping lightly to the floor and padding in the appropriate direction. Aramis grinned as he sat up.

Only hours into this and she could already read his mind.

Aramis untangled himself from the blanket he'd been using and spread it instead over Porthos. Then he pulled the spare blanket from the back of the couch and made his way to Athos. The older man was asleep as well, partly full whiskey bottle gripped loosely in his hand. Aramis sighed and eased the bottle free. Then he spread the blanket over Athos and collected four beer bottles from the floor next to the recliner.

He took them all to the kitchen, forgoing the light switch in deference to those sleeping behind him. He smiled in greeting at Esmé when she looked up at him from her water bowl.

Aramis set the bottles on the counter next to the sink and reached to turn on the faucet so they could be properly rinsed before being tossed into the recycle bin.

A loud 'bang' suddenly cracked through the silence of the night.

Aramis whirled, his hand clipping one of the bottles and sending it tumbling off the counter. Even as one hand flew unerringly to the combat knife he always kept strapped to his back, the other shot out, catching the bottle before it could shatter on the tile.

He replaced it on the counter silently, sharp eyes warily cutting around the room.

Moving in a defensible crouch, he ghosted across the kitchen and retrieved one of his backup side arms from its place hidden in the food cupboard. With it in hand, his slid his knife back into its hiding place on his back and moved to the front door, checking the deadbolts and then warily looking through the peep hole. The landing was quiet and still.

When nothing changed for several seconds he turned away from the door, stalking stealthily down the hall to the roof access door. It was locked too.

Next, he checked the front window, brow furrowing as he watched someone propping open the hood of their car, a faint billow of smoke still rising from the tail pipe.

A car backfire.

It had only been a car backfire.

Aramis' blew out a tense breath, letting the curtain fall closed. A glance at his brothers showed them both still soundly asleep.

He retreated to the kitchen, feeling ridiculous for his overreaction. And even _more_ ridiculous because he couldn't seem to stop his hand from gripping his side arm like his life depended on it.

It _had_ once – not all that long ago. He'd only had the round in the chamber left when they… when they…

A band tightened around his chest as beams of light cut across a phantom darkness around him. His hand tightened around his gun while his other when to press against his sternum. He could feel his own heart pounding against his ribs. He could feel the burn in his lungs as they strained to draw in air.

More flashlight beams flashed across his vision and the bullet scar on his shoulder seared with the same pain it had that night. It had been the first hit he'd taken that night…but not the last. His thigh burned in memory. His lungs stuttered, new pain igniting in his chest.

He pressed his back against the tree…but it wasn't a tree. It was the cabinet on the kitchen island…but still he felt the rough bark against his back through the too thin fabric of his shirt. He still felt the icy cold of the snow on his gloveless hands.

Something wet pressed against his jaw and Aramis tensed, hand aching with how tightly he gripped his gun. But then something warm pressed against his shoulder, and a velvety soft pressure nudged against his chin.

Aramis blinked and watched Esmé crawl into his lap and force her nose under the hand he had pressed to his chest until his palm lay on her head instead. Then she simply rested along his chest and stared at him.

He stared back.

And his next breath came easier.

* * *

Porthos snorted himself awake, glancing around their living room blearily.

Athos was sprawled out on the recliner, sound asleep. Last Porthos had seen, Aramis had been on the opposite end of the couch from Porthos, Esmé curled up at his side. Neither were there now. A blanket had been draped over him at some point, and one over Athos as well. Such silent ministrations were normal with Aramis.

Porthos sat up, pushing off the blanket and listening for a clue as to where Aramis had gone. The kitchen was dark and silent. The hall bathroom door was open and the light off. Porthos stood, padding over to the front door. Late night runs through the park down the block were a relatively normal pastime for Aramis, especially when he was having trouble sleeping. But the white board attached to the back of the door was blank. Aramis always scrawled a note there when he left in the middle of the night. He'd promised months ago not to disappear without a word on them anymore. He'd _mostly_ kept that promise. The deadbolts – three of them now because Aramis had insisted – were all engaged, and his running shoes were piled sloppily against the wall, still covered in mud from Aramis' last run.

Their apartment wasn't large, so the only places left to look were the bedrooms.

Checking with a glance to be sure Athos was still sleeping, Porthos made his way down the narrow hall. He checked the bar lock on the door to the roof as he passed it and it, too, was properly engaged. Aramis' door stood wide open and Porthos knew before every reaching it that Aramis wouldn't be found there. He checked anyway, then checked his own room afterward.

No Aramis and no Esmé.

Trying not to worry irrationally, Porthos backtracked to the living room and checked the front door again.

Still locked.

He strode over to Athos, shaking him awake.

"Wha…?" Athos grunted at him, blinking blearily.

"I can't find Aramis," Porthos hissed.

Athos sat up quickly, eyes clearing.

"Out on a run?" Athos suggested.

"Shoes are still here," Porthos replied. "No note on the door."

"Roof?"

"Door's still locked from this side."

Athos stood, wadding up his blanket and tossing it back into the recliner.

"You've checked everywhere?"

Porthos started to nod, but stopped, looking back at the dark kitchen. He threw a hopeful glance at Athos and started in that direction, the older man on his heels.

At first, it seemed their hope was unfounded. The kitchen was dark and still. But then Athos nudged him, pointing down at something at the floor behind the island.

The edge of a bare foot.

Suddenly worried Aramis was injured and unconscious, Porthos nearly dove around the edge of the island only to freeze, breath caught in his chest, even as Athos rammed into his back.

Aramis was there, curled on his side with one arm hooked under his head, hand wrapped loosely around one of his back up pistols. His other arm was draped over Esmé, whose back was curled into his chest.

And he was asleep. Peacefully, blissfully asleep.

Athos disappeared from behind Porthos, only to reappear a moment later, shaking out the blanket he had abandoned in the recliner. He stepped around Porthos to carefully drape it over Aramis and Esmé both. Then he slid down to sit against the cupboards opposite the island. Porthos let out a slow breath and joined him.

Esmé, who had appeared asleep until now, suddenly opened her eyes to regard them. Porthos gave her a smile and something in her dark eyes seemed to smile back. With a contented huff, she settled again, eyes drifting closed. As Porthos and Athos watched, Aramis' hand started to clench where it rested against her chest, but just as quickly it relaxed, and he slept on.

They would need to send Constance flowers, Porthos decided – a big, expensive bunch of them. She had earned them.

* * *

 _I originally considered having Aramis' motorcycle be affectionately named Esme, but it didn't sit right with me. Esme in my normal universe is his horse, she has a personality, cares about him, looks out for him lol. So I knew she needed to be something special here too. Now I don't pretend to know a lot about therapy dogs, but I thought it was a fitting place for her to take here. You'll have to forgive her absence before now as this was a new development with this Modern AU I've been toying with haha. I'll have to do a proper Modern AU fic one of these days haha. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! You'll also notice we met some other familiar faces in this one, just to mix things up ;)_

Until next time!


	20. Threat

_First of all - those of you that witnessed my struggle with this site the last couple of days with the "into the light" fic, I apologize. It was super frustrating on my end, and I imagine equally so on yours. I am contemplating a quick add on to that one where we get to see Porthos meet Aramis properly for the first time so that might happen._

 _Anyway, here we are with another Whumptober prompt! This is unbeta'd so forgive the mistakes I know are there.  
This one was: Threat_

* * *

Porthos shifted his arms to rest on his bent knees, grimacing as the metal shackles rubbed against his already raw wrists. He dropped his head back against the stone wall of his current prison and sighed deeply.

Of all the days for him to have forgotten his lockpicks on his bedside table.

He stretched his mouth, feeling the irritating pull of drying blood on the side of his face. Whoever it was that had taken him, had come from behind and caught Porthos in the side of the head with the stock of a musket even as he'd turned to face the threat. He didn't think the blow had done any lasting harm, but even if he did have some minor form of a concussion, Porthos was far from worried about it. He had a much more pressing concern.

Aramis had been with him.

Aramis was not with him _now_.

Porthos found it unlikely that Aramis had simply allowed their attackers to make off with Porthos, so that left only a few options.

Aramis had been unable to stop them and gone for help. Porthos rejected that outright. As nice as it would be to have the entire regiment ride to his rescue, Aramis would never have abandoned him. He never would have run from a fight, even if it _was_ in his best interest. The marksman tended to prefer recklessness to reason – where is own wellbeing was concerned anyway.

No, he wouldn't have run. It just simply wasn't in his nature. More likely, if they hadn't managed to take Aramis, he would have followed them and could be plotting Porthos' rescue even now.

Another possibility, of course, was that Aramis had been killed in the attack and left in the streets. Porthos refused to accept this outcome. He would know if Aramis was dead. He would _know_.

That left one last explanation. Aramis had been taken too but was being kept somewhere else.

This was troubling. Porthos preferred to have Aramis at his side, where he could properly look after him. His brother tended to attract the worst kinds of trouble and while quite adept at keeping others from getting caught up in it, was rather terrible at looking after _himself_ in such situations.

"You better be alright," Porthos muttered into the empty room.

As if conjured by his words, the heavy lock that had thus far kept the large wooden door across the small room firmly closed suddenly shifted with a loud clang. Porthos itched to stand and face whatever was coming through the door, but his shackles were bound by a chain to the floor, preventing him from rising. He settled for stiffening his spine and glaring for all he was worth.

He found himself hoping for a familiar mane of unruly hair and warm brown eyes.

When the door swung open, he got his wish; but not in a way he would ever hope for.

Aramis was shoved through the door, the force of it sending him to the ground. Porthos flinched where he sat, sitting forward and pulling against his restraints as the urge to go to his brother's side swept through him.

"'Mis?" he breathed, worried and angry all at once.

Aramis was already pushing himself up, his own shackled hands having broken his fall.

He lifted his head to meet Porthos' gaze.

Porthos clenched his jaw tightly shut at the sight of the rapidly darkening skin under Aramis' left eye and along the line of his jaw. His lip was split and swollen, blood already having stained his beard and a cut above his brow had painted the left side of his face red with blood that looked far to fresh to have come from the initial fight when they'd been taken.

Only the sharp shake of Aramis' head and the way he raised on hand in a calming motion, kept Porthos from attempting to rip his way free from confinement and beat to death the three men who had followed Aramis into the room.

Porthos forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out. He met Aramis' gaze again and cocked a brow at him, wordlessly asking him if he was okay.

Aramis' brow twitched in response, an irritated gesture that suggested he was more _annoyed_ than injured. Though Aramis wasn't prone to admitting injury anyway, so it brought Porthos little comfort.

"Get him up," one of the other men barked.

Immediately, the other two stepped forward and hauled Aramis roughly to his feet.

"I'll ask you again," the apparent leader growled at Aramis. "Will you reconsider?"

Porthos frowned, clearly having missed some vital part of what was going on. Aramis, looking extremely put upon, stared at the man as if he were speaking a different language.

" _No_ ," he finally answered as if it should have been obvious. "I've not changed my mind in the two minutes since we _last_ spoke of this upstairs when I clearly told you such a request was _insane_."

Their captor's face contorted into a scowl and Porthos looked back and forth between the man and Aramis.

"What'd I miss?" he asked lightly, though his expression remained serious and he eyed the pistol in the leader's hand warily.

"Nothing much," Aramis replied breezily, though his glare was cold as he stared at their captor. "Suffice it to say _William_ here made me an offer that I was inclined to refuse."

Porthos glanced at 'William' and then back at Aramis.

"Offer?" he asked.

"I made a fair and professional proposal – an exchange of payment for services rendered," William spat. He slid a vindictive glance at Porthos. "I was met with refusal."

"You wanted me to assassinate someone," Aramis argued. "Of course I refused."

Porthos blinked in shock. _Assassinate?_

"Why not do it yourself?" Porthos wondered. "You obviously don't mind getting your hands dirty."

William sneered.

"There is a certain _distance_ required. Half of Paris knows the Musketeer Aramis is the finest shot in the city, the other half knows him as the finest shot in all of France."

Porthos clenched his jaw tightly closed, thinking of all the times he'd touted about Aramis' skill to anyone who would listen. All the times they'd made some extra coin by betting on it. That didn't even mention all the instances Aramis had used his ability in the service of the king.

Word spread, of course it did.

"You're making me blush," Aramis taunted with a smirk.

"Enough!" William snapped, clearly at the end of his patience. "Will you reconsider?"

Aramis glared back at him.

"No."

"Turn him around," the man ordered sharply and Aramis was immediately forced to spin so his back was to them and he was facing the door. "Don't let him look."

Porthos watched Aramis' hands raise slightly in a gesture of baffled annoyance and could imagine the accompanying eyeroll. Porthos might have grinned at how _put out_ Aramis appeared by this whole situation if their captor had not promptly raised his pistol and pressed the barrel against the back of Aramis' head.

Porthos went rigid, hardly daring to breathe.

"Is this supposed to intimidate me?" Aramis goaded. "You're certainly not the first to put a pistol to my head. My own father, in fact, has had the pleasure. So, forgive me if I don't start quaking in my boots," he spat sarcastically.

While fighting down the immediate swell of anger that always accompanied the mention of Julien d'Herblay – and horror at the reminder of the terrible time Aramis' years with the man had been – Porthos shifted, ready to do… _something_ if he had to.

William appeared unfazed.

"Will you reconsider?" he asked calmly.

" _No_ ," Aramis replied sharply.

"Then choose."

Porthos saw Aramis' posture go eerily still.

"What?" he asked, tone confused and wary all at once.

"Choose where in your friend I put the shot from this pistol."

Aramis turned his head, heedless of the gun still pointed at him. He stared down the barrel unflinchingly and even without being able to see his eyes, Porthos could _feel_ the weight of his glare.

Their captor lifted his chin, gaze hard.

"Agree or choose."

Aramis did nothing but clench his jaw more tightly closed.

The man swung the gun away from Aramis and pointed it at Porthos.

"Don't let him look," he ordered calmly.

One of the men restraining Aramis, roughly shoved his face back around to face away from them.

Without warning, their captor fired his pistol.

The bullet bit harmlessly into the stone wall above Porthos' head, raining bits of stone down on top of him and making him instinctively duck.

Aramis, senses tuned to every sound a gun could ever make, didn't flinch with the shot, but he did pull against the hands holding him, trying to turn and assess the situation.

"No harm," Porthos assured quickly as the guards jerked Aramis back around to face the door.

"A warning," their captor announced. "The only warning you will receive. Now," the man made a show of methodically reloading his pistol, "will you reconsider?"

Porthos could see the tight tension in Aramis' shoulders. If he knew his brother, Aramis was running scenarios in his head and weighing them against the risk to Porthos. The risk to _himself_ he wouldn't consider. He never did.

Porthos wasn't about to let Aramis do something foolish.

"Steady, 'Mis," Porthos murmured. "Hold your ground."

Aramis turned his head a _third_ time, gaze seeking and finding Porthos' unerringly. Porthos gave him a firm nod.

Their captor pressed the barrel of his pistol to Aramis' temple and forced him to turn back to the door.

"Well?"

"I won't do it," Aramis replied, voice low and chilling, fully of barely restrained fury.

Porthos had heard that tone only a few times before: once in the presence of Aramis' bastard of a father, another when they came face to face with a man issuing a bounty on Musketeers, and a third time when they faced Treville over the whole mess with Savoy.

"Then choose."

"I will not."

"Choose or I will choose for you. I warn you, I will not be merciful."

"I won't choose," Aramis refused again.

"Very well." The man turned to Porthos again. "How long will a Musketeer with a destroyed knee last?"

"Wait!" Aramis snapped.

Their captor paused, a smug smirk turning up his lips.

Aramis was shaking his head, casting a look upward as he steadied himself.

"'S alright, 'Mis," Porthos rumbled lowly. "You know what to do."

Porthos could take it. He could take a flesh wound and recover. More importantly, Aramis would know that Porthos would forgive him anything, especially something so out of his control as this.

But Aramis sharply shook his head in refusal.

"Choose or agree," the captor reminded sharply. He deliberately pulled back the hammer on the pistol and Aramis' posture tightened at the familiar sound.

"I won't," Aramis stated again, his voice as tense as his shoulders.

"Very well," William took his aim at Porthos again.

Porthos watched Aramis go still, head tilting slightly. He even seemed to momentarily stop breathing. Porthos knew the signs – some wild, likely dangerous, idea had finally struck. Porthos both loved and hated these moments. On the one hand, Aramis' wild, dangerous ideas usually _worked_. On the other, they almost always ended with _Aramis_ being the one in danger.

"I hope you weren't attached to walking," William offered conversationally to Porthos.

"Wait!" Aramis all but shouted.

"Too late," the man denied, finger curling around the trigger.

"I'll do it!" Aramis exclaimed in a rush, obviously anxious to get the words out before something catastrophic happened. "I'll do it," he repeated more levelly.

Porthos remained silent as he watched their captor's mouth curl into a victorious smile as he raised the gun, angling it towards the ceiling instead.

"I knew you would see reason," the man mocked, turning away from Porthos.

Porthos kept his gaze on Aramis' back and watched something shift in his brother's posture now that the immediate threat to Porthos was gone. He drew in a breath of anticipation and waited.

Aramis moved.

The marksman twisted abruptly, pulling his two guards off balance. He kicked out, snapping one of the men's legs outward at the knee. The man went down with a howl of pain that was abruptly silenced when Aramis' knee cracked into his nose. He collapsed in a boneless heap and Aramis' right arm was free.

He spun back, looping the chain linking his wrists around the second guard's neck and nearly dancing around him, until they were back to back, chain pulled tight.

A sharp pull and the man's neck broke.

William, eyes wide with shock, only managed to stare for the seconds it took Aramis to make his attack. He finally recovered as Aramis dropped the dead guard to the ground. The gun came up, aimed unerringly at Aramis' chest, even as he launched himself across the space between them.

Aramis was a hand width away when it fired.

"NO!" the cry tore from Porthos painfully, leaving his throat feeling raw.

But Aramis was quick; he always had been. He shoved a hand against the barrel and leaned left, sending the shot over his shoulder, splitting the air past his ear instead of burrowing into his chest. The sound had to have been deafening, the heat of the barrel a burn against his hand. But Aramis didn't flinch; he never did.

Instead, he barreled forward, taking William to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Porthos was on his knees now, pulling against the chains that kept him bound to the floor.

The two brawled ruthlessly, exchanging brutal blows as they battled for dominance.

An elbow smashed into Aramis' ear and a knee into his ribs. But other than a snarl, Aramis appeared unfazed. He shifted and clawed his way into position as he looped the chain of his shackles around William's neck and latched himself onto his back.

William, appearing nearly as resilient as Aramis, staggered to standing, Aramis clinging tightly to him and refusing to be dislodged. Porthos could see him straining to put enough pressure on the man's throat to bring him down, the angle was wrong to be able to break his neck, but Aramis could cut off his airway if he held firm.

William growled and back pedaled until he slammed Aramis back against the stone wall.

Aramis gasped out a sharp breath but didn't loosen his hold. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the chain and ground out a low, strained sound as he put all his strength into compressing the man's airway.

William drew away from the wall, clearly intent to slam Aramis back against it again. But Aramis shifted, using the reprieve to lock his ankles at the man's stomach and throw his weight back. The move tightened the chain sharply and William's eyes bulged as his mouth opened in a soundless gasp. Aramis, hands twisted to wrap around the chains where they met his shackles, pulled harder, arching towards the ground and grinding out another strained growl.

Finally, William collapsed under the suffocating tightness of the chains. He tipped backwards, unable to fight against the pull of Aramis' weight. Aramis' back slammed hard into the floor but he didn't relent his crushing assault with the chain until the man – collapsed mostly on top of him now – had stopped struggling for several moments.

Panting hard, Aramis unwound the chain from William's neck and kicked the body away. Then he sprawled back on the floor, eyes closed as he gasped in air.

Porthos was just opening his mouth to ask if he was okay when Aramis spoke.

"Porthos, are you alright?"

Porthos snorted, unsurprised.

"I think I should be the one asking _you_ that."

Aramis huffed a vague laugh and started moving.

"I'm fine," he assured predictably as he started searching William's pockets. He chirped victoriously when he found a key that looked to match their shackles. He stood, wavering worryingly, before stubbornly staggering his way over to Porthos.

"You don't look 'fine'," Porthos argued, frowning at the vague tremor in Aramis' hands as he tried to insert the key into Porthos' restraints.

"It's just the adrenaline," Aramis countered, brow furrowing in concentration as he attempted to get the key into the keyhole. After a moment, he finally succeeded. "Ah, see? Just fine."

"Uh-huh," Porthos hummed doubtfully. Once his first wrist was free, he took the key from Aramis and freed the other one himself.

He had just started in on Aramis' wrists, tutting worriedly over the raw, bleeding skin beneath the shackles, when a clatter of footsteps beyond the door had them both tensing. Without hesitation, Porthos jerked Aramis behind him, glaring when the marksman immediately protested.

"You've had your turn," Porthos growled.

But the face that appeared through the doorway was a familiar one.

Athos took in the scene before him with one sweeping glance and then leaned almost lazily against the doorframe.

"Been busy, have you?" Athos commented dryly.

"Of course, you'd show up after all the hard work was done," Aramis shot back with a grin.

"Where's the pup? Did you lose him?" Porthos wondered.

"I told you, Athos, you have to keep him properly leashed or he'll wander off," Aramis added, holding up his wrists to allow Porthos access the shackles again.

"Hey! I heard that!" d'Artagnan complained as he appeared in the doorway next to Athos. "I was clearing the rest of the house. Excuse me for doing my job properly."

"I think the job's already been done," Athos observed, motioning at the three bodies on the floor. "As it happens, I don't think we were needed."

D'Artagnan looked around and then turned wide eyes to Porthos.

"You did this?" he asked in awe.

Porthos snorted, tossing away the shackles that had kept Aramis bound.

"Not me," he denied with a grin as he hooked an arm over Aramis' shoulders and pulled him towards the others. "He didn't even save me any. Just bloody _selfish_ is what it was."

Aramis rolled his eyes and grinned, but d'Artagnan frowned.

"Aramis? Really?" d'Artagnan wondered doubtfully. "All three of them?"

"I'll try not to be offended by your tone of disbelief," Aramis replied with an eyeroll.

"You wouldn't know it too look at him," Porthos started as the four of them headed out of the room, "I know he appears quite scrawny and small next to one such as myself…"

"I'm _not_ scrawny."

"…but our Aramis is quite the little scrapper in a fight," Porthos went on unfazed.

" _Little_?" Aramis nearly squawked.

"I believe Treville once referred to him as a 'hell cat'," Athos added as he led the way through the small house to the exit.

"What's it that Marc calls you?" Porthos wondered with a laugh. He tightened his arm around Aramis' shoulders when he felt him stumble slightly, boot catching on an uneven floorboard. Aramis' hand briefly braced against his ribs – which Porthos suspected were at the very least bruised after all that fighting – before dropping away as if nothing had happened.

Porthos arched a brow at Athos, who was looking back at them from the front door. Athos just rolled his eyes and held the door open.

"What's he call you?" d'Artagnan pressed.

"No one say it," Aramis warned as they left the house and moved to the horses Athos and d'Artagnan had brought.

" _Gato loco,"_ Athos supplied unrepentantly.

" _Athos!"_ Aramis gasped in betrayal.

"Another cat reference?" d'Artagnan asked with a grin, likely pleased to discover he wasn't the only one with an unwanted nickname.

Porthos laughed heartily and hovered next to Aramis as the marksman mounted his horse. He waved off the exasperated eyeroll he got for his trouble.

"It's been going on since Aramis joined the regiment," Porthos revealed. "They used to call him 'kitten' because he was the baby of the group and spent so much time preening."

Aramis glared down at him, but there was humor reflected in his eyes.

"Taking pride in one's appearance is _not_ preening."

Porthos chuckled and swiftly mounted his own horse.

"He also likes a good pet." Porthos reached out as if to stroke Aramis' hair, but a sharp glare from the marksman had him halting with a chuckle.

"Touch me and I'll break your hand."

"Kitten?" d'Artagnan laughed, obviously having gotten stuck on that detail.

"Sorry, were you _wanting_ me to stop with the 'pup' jokes?" Aramis warned.

D'Artagnan sobered and cleared his throat.

"Sorry."

"Finally, some respect."

"Yes…" d'Artagnan agreed submissively. "You can retract your claws," he added a moment later with a wicked grin.

Porthos laughed, shrugging in apology at the glare of betrayal Aramis sent him.

"If you are all quite done," Athos spoke up. "We should get back so someone can be sent for these bodies."

They all obediently turned their horses towards the direction of the Garrison.

"Besides," Athos went on unexpectedly, "it's going to rain and you know how cats are with water."

Porthos couldn't help the booming laughter that followed.

* * *

 _Couldn't help but have some fun at Aramis' expense there at the end. It took everything I had not to throw in a 'murder kitty' reference which is what he's constantly referred to as over on tumblr hahaha_

 _Until next time! Do we want modern Au or their proper time next? Decisions, decisions..._


	21. Thrown Against Something

_Hey hey hey! Look at me, still alive and kickin' and hey look! Another Whumptober fic! At this rate, maybe I'll get them all done by THIS october. But seriously, I've had major writers block and I think I'm finally through it so I'm excited. Enjoy!_

 _Prompt: Thrown against something_

* * *

Sometimes, d'Artagnan envied Porthos his size. The man was built like a bull, strong and thick. No one could ever easily throw Porthos down or push him aside. He was immovable when he put his mind to it. The same could not be said for d'Artagnan, who, while respectfully tall, was annoyingly trim.

Aramis, of course, was no better off. Only a bit broader in shoulder than d'Artagnan, the sniper was lithe – built for speed, not brute force. They were both strong in their own right, of course, years of consistent training had made it so.

But even so, d'Artagnan had never beaten Porthos in hand-to-hand. And he knew that though he had come closer than anyone, Aramis hadn't either.

Robert LaSalle, the man they had been tasked with taking into custody, resembled their comrade in build far more than he resembled them and somewhere along his shady past he'd seemingly been taught to fight.

Now, they frustratingly found themselves being tossed around as if they weighed nothing.

"We should have brought Porthos," Aramis growled out as he clung to their opponents back like a limpet, combat boots crossed at the gigantic man's stomach and arms around his neck in the hopes of anchoring himself. He'd only just achieved this position and was working to get his arms into place to cut off LaSalle's airway.

D'Artagnan pushed away from the wall he'd just gotten shoved into and huffed.

"Strangely, I was just thinking the same thing," he replied lightly, eyeing LaSalle warily as he pulled at Aramis' arms, trying to dislodge him. The marksman held firm.

LaSalle growled and threw himself backward, slamming Aramis' back hard against the wall, sending a spiderweb of cracks up the drywall. D'Artagnan winched in sympathy as Aramis grit his teeth, jaw clenching, but his hold didn't waver.

"Remind me why we had to bring him in alive again?" Aramis ground out, rolling his eyes heavenward when the man drew only to slam back again. This time a chunk of the drywall crumbled away. " _Dios mio,"_ Aramis gasped. _"Do_ something!"

"What?" d'Artagnan asked. He quickstepped to put himself between LaSalle and the door when he angled that direction. "The stun gun didn't work!"

"I don't know!" the man slammed Aramis back again and d'Artagnan saw the sniper nearly lose his hold. "Anything! _"_

D'Artagnan snatched up a broken leg from a chair that had already been smashed during the brawl. He swung it at the brute's knee, but succeeded only in drawing out a raging yell. His eyes widened when the man's hands found a hold in the shoulder strap of d'Artagnan's TAC vest.

With a bellow, the brute swung d'Artagnan around and slammed him head first into the wall.

His vision sparked white and then he lost a few moments to darkness. The next thing he was aware of was the floor beneath his cheek.

He blinked sluggishly and tried to pull his thoughts into line.

He heard a familiar string of Spanish cursing and hauled his head off the ground, pushing his arms under him so he could locate the owner of that voice.

A bit of clarity returned as he watched their giant adversary hook a hand around the shoulder strap of Aramis' tack vest this time. With a bellow, he yanked Aramis bodily over his shoulder and slammed him back first onto the coffee table. The wood shattered beneath the sudden assault, leaving Aramis at the center of the wreckage.

D'Artagnan struggled to his feet, determined to help. He fell back against the wall immediately, shaking his head when his vision swam drunkenly. It steadied only a moment later in time to see LaSalle haul Aramis up and throw him towards the small kitchen. Aramis' back hit the small island counter hard and then tumbled over it, landing in a heap on the tile.

"Diablo?" d'Artagnan called out worriedly when the sniper didn't immediately move. But a few breath stealing moments later he was relieved to see Aramis slowly drawing his arms in from their sprawled state. D'Artagnan's attention was drawn back to their opponent when the man hauled him up by his TAC vest, pressing him effortlessly against the wall and leaving his feet dangling.

"Shit!" he gasped out, swallowing down a wave of nausea as his head swam.

He suddenly remembered a close combat training session during his first month with the Musketeers, only days after being assigned to Alpha Team. Aramis and Porthos had been sparring with each other and d'Artagnan had never seen more dirty, underhanded moves exchanged in a training session in all his time within the military. He'd been roped into joining in and after Aramis had put him on his back with laughable ease, d'Artagnan had voiced a complaint about the sniper's dirty methods. It had been Porthos who explained it.

" _When the difference between living and dying is what's_ _ **proper**_ _? You do whatever it takes. It's not always just_ _ **your**_ _life on the line out there."_

D'Artagnan had seen that mindset lived out in a hundred different ways over the months since then. Porthos and Aramis both had proven more than willing to 'get their hands dirty' if it meant protecting one of their own – even more so _each other_. Even Athos had resorted to such methods when the situation was dire.

D'Artagnan figured he was in no position to question the obvious success of such methods now.

He kicked his leg forward as hard as he could, catching the giant between the legs.

LaSalle shouted, dropping d'Artagnan, doubling over and stumbling back. D'Artagnan was still trying to get his feet back under him when a blur of movement in his peripheral caught his eye.

He turned his head in time to see Aramis bring a frying pan down hard on the brute's head.

Mercifully, LaSalle dropped like a brick, unconscious at last.

Aramis dropped the now dented frying pan with a clang and collapsed against the wall next to d'Artagnan, sliding down it until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

"Your head?" Aramis asked, breathing oddly shallow.

"Still attached…I think."

The sniper, and unofficial field medic, turned to look at him, eyes narrowing. He drew himself away from the wall and turned to face d'Artagnan fully, taking his head between his hands and looking him in the eyes.

"You blacked out. Are you nauseated?"

"Only when I move my head…or eyes."

Aramis hummed in concern.

"Your pupils would suggest a concussion. Infirmary for you, _mon ami_."

Aramis sat back heavily, a grimace fleeting across his face almost too quickly for d'Artagnan to catch it in his befuddled state.

"And you?" d'Artagnan asked knowingly.

"Me? I'm fine," Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan snorted, dropping his head back against the wall wearily.

"Liar."

Aramis huffed a chuckle.

"You offend me." He to put a hand to his chest as if wounded but ended up pulling at the collar of his TAC vest as if it was too tight.

"Ribs?" d'Artagnan guessed.

"I have them, yes. Just as you do."

"Aramis," he scolded impatiently.

"That tone only works from Athos."

"Aramis," he tried more gently.

"And that tone, only from Porthos."

"Damnit, Aramis!"

Now the sniper chuckled lightly.

"I believe you just channeled Treville. Try it a bit more whiney, that suits you better."

"I'm not _whiney_!"

"Shrill, then."

d'Artagnan threw his hands up and let it go. He might have known he would never get a straight answer out of the marksman. Even the others struggled to get Aramis to own up to injuries and he was far less experienced than Porthos and Athos at dealing with the sniper's stubbornness.

"What should we do about him?" d'Artagnan asked, drawing his head away from the wall to look at the beast of a man still laying in a heap on the floor.

"We were tasked with bringing him in," Aramis reminded.

"Do _you_ want to carry him down the stairs? I certainly don't. I don't even want to take _myself_ down the stairs."

"Hmm…good point. Call the others then. They can do the heavy lifting."

D'Artagnan found a cell phone suddenly tossed into his lap. He stared at it for a moment and then picked it up. He was used to being relegated to the menial tasks whenever possible. More to the point, however, he suspected Aramis didn't want Porthos or Athos _hearing_ his denied injury through his voice – they both had an uncanny sense for such things. D'Artagnan kept the call short and less than a minute later, help was on the way.

He tossed the phone back into Aramis' lap and rested his head back, letting his eyes close.

He hesitated a moment and then spoke again.

"Are your ribs broken?" he asked quietly, hating how young he sounded, how guilty and vulnerable. He had been Aramis' back up after all, and he'd failed spectacularly.

For a moment there was only silence.

"Yes."

At first d'Artagnan thought he'd imagined the reply. But then his sluggish brain caught up and he rolled his head against the wall, opening his eyes to look at Aramis in surprise. But the sniper had his head resting back too, eyes closed and jaw tense.

"Don't look at me like that," Aramis grumbled without opening his eyes.

"You answered me."

"Don't let it go to your head. You sounded too pathetic for me to resist."

"I know you're trying to insult me, but you still _answered me_."

"Kicked Puppy Tone – that's what I'll call it. Fitting, if you ask me."

d'Artagnan rolled his head back to neutral and grinned.

* * *

 _End! That was the modernAU obviously what with the cell phone involved. Hopefully more soon! I really do want to get these done BEFORE October hahaha_


	22. Fever

_Safe to say my writer's block is gone. I hope so at least :) Here's the next whumptober fic! This one is in their proper time, but that modernAU will be cropping back up soon ;)_

 _Prompt: Fever_

* * *

It had been an awful morning.

It started with a pounding headache upon waking. Then, for some unfathomable reason, d'Artagnan couldn't seem to figure out if he was too cold or too warm. He'd felt better after eating breakfast…for about ten minutes. At which point he was uncomfortably reacquainted with the meal as it came right back up.

So, when d'Artagnan fumbled with his pistol as he attempted to clip it to his belt, ultimately dropping the weapon to the dirt, he supposed that was just _fitting_ for the day he was having.

The other three all went still and turned to stare at him in surprise. Then Athos closed his eyes with a sigh while Porthos shook his head in disappointment.

"Oh no, you're in for it now…" he warned lowly.

Aramis, of course, was all _but_ glaringat him.

"How many times have I told you, _pup_ ," the marksman lectured as he bent to retrieve d'Artagnan's pistol. "Respect your weapon and…"

"It will respect you, I know," d'Artagnan finished quickly. "It slipped."

"See that it doesn't _slip_ again," Aramis instructed as he handed the pistol over.

D'Artagnan reached out to take it, his fingers unintentionally brushing against Aramis' wrist as he did.

He saw the marksman's eyes suddenly narrow and swallowed.

He was done for now. There was no hope that Aramis wouldn't notice the heat d'Artagnan could feel pouring off his skin.

In 3, 2, 1…

"Are you feeling alright?" Aramis asked, right on cue.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to assure that he was fine, but Aramis was already stepping closer and before d'Artagnan knew what was happening, there was a hand pressed to his forehead.

"Hey! Boundaries!" he squawked, pushing the offending hand away. But it was too late.

"You're burning up," Aramis stated.

"He's what?" Porthos asked, eyes suddenly losing their humor and shifting to worry instead.

"A fever," Aramis confirmed.

"Are you ill?" Athos asked, taking a step closer.

"I'm fine!" d'Artagnan insisted. "It's just…it's not…I'm _fine!"_ he declared with a huff.

"Of course, you are," Aramis placated as he steered d'Artagnan away from the long table in the yard and towards the steps up to the second level barracks. "Fevers crop up out of nowhere all the time."

D'Artagnan frowned at him.

"I know you're being sarcastic," he muttered.

"Well, I'd be concerned if you didn't," Aramis grinned. Then he looked over his shoulder at Athos and Porthos. "I'm going to settle him in bed. If you'll saddle Esmé, we can leave as soon as I'm done."

"I don't need bed!" d'Artagnan protested. But to his frustration, he was ignored.

"She won't like that," Porthos pointed out, referring to Esmé.

"Here." Aramis produced an apple from his doublet and tossed it to Porthos. "That should buy you a few minutes."

And then, without d'Artagnan's consent, he found himself in Aramis and Porthos' room. Aramis all but shoved him down onto the third bed that had once belonged to Athos.

"Leathers off," Aramis instructed. "Boots too."

"I'm fine, _really_ ," he insisted, but did as he was instructed. He'd already learned better than to disobey Aramis when he was in 'medic' mode.

Aramis strode back over to him after throwing open the window to allow a breeze. He crouched in front of d'Artagan and met his eyes seriously.

"You didn't keep down your breakfast today, did you?" he asked bluntly.

d'Artagnan frowned.

"How did you…"

"Your head hurts. I can tell by the way you've been squinting your eyes."

"Well, yes…but…"

"Achy, a bit out of sorts – enough that you dropped your pistol," Aramis went on.

D'Artagnan sighed is resignation.

"I'm sick, aren't I?" he asked miserably.

"I'm afraid so," Aramis sympathized. "Lay down, try to sleep. We should be back in an hour or two and I'll come check on you."

D'Artagnan nodded and let himself be bundled back into the bed. He couldn't help the relieved sign when his head hit the pillow. His eyes fell closed immediately and without his permission. Aramis puttered around the room quietly for a few more moments but d'Artagnan was too tired to be bothered wondering what he was doing.

A cool hand suddenly pressed to his forehead again and d'Artagnan unwillingly found himself turning into it.

"Water in a cup by the bed. Bucket as well, to be safe. There's a bit of bread and some cheese. Try to eat if you feel up to it but sleep most of all."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan mumbled sleepily.

"This you never need to thank me for, _mon ami,"_ Aramis whispered before his footfalls receded. The door opened and d'Artagnan drifted off as it closed.

* * *

Aramis trotted down the stairs and looked around, but the others weren't out of the stable yet. Frowning, he made his way across the yard and pushed the stable door open. He passed Fort's stall, surprised to find he wasn't saddled yet. Esmé, in the stall beyond, had her bridle in place, but nothing else. She was munching happily on an apple and her eyes seemed to smile when she saw him.

Worried now, he moved further to Roger's stall. Inside, Athos was sitting on a stool and Porthos was crouched in front of him.

"What happened?" Aramis asked in surprise as he slide inside and crouched next to Porthos.

"Nothing. I'm quite well," Athos replied immediately.

"Yes, you look it," Aramis shot back. Athos was two shades paler than he'd been when Aramis left them and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. Without asking, he reached out to feel Athos' forehead.

To his credit, the swordsman merely glared at him.

"He shoved my hand away when I tried that," Porthos announced grumpily.

"You're far less intimidating than Aramis when he's on his medic warpath," Athos replied.

Porthos tilted his head in agreement and Aramis wondered if he should feel insulted or complimented.

"Did you lose your breakfast too?" Aramis asked.

Athos grimaced and Aramis sighed.

"Or perhaps you didn't bother to eat?" he surmised knowingly. "Well, you're going straight to bed too. Come on, up with you." He latched onto Athos' arm and pulled him up to standing.

"I'll finish saddling the horses," Porthos volunteered.

Aramis eyed him warily.

"You're not feeling ill as well, are you?"

Porthos chuckled.

"Don't worry, 'Mis, I kept my breakfast right where I like it," he assured, patting his stomach happily.

Aramis grinned and urged Athos out of the stall.

"I'll be back," he called over his shoulder.

Athos was unreasonably compliant as they made their way upstairs.

"If you weren't so miserable every time you got sick, I'd wish for it," Aramis commented. "You're always so agreeable when you're ill."

Athos snorted.

"You usually say I'm a pain in your ass when I'm ill."

Aramis laughed.

"My friend, there is a marked difference between you being sick from wine and sick from illness."

Athos grumbled something under his breath but didn't disagree.

Aramis pushed the door to their room open and pointed Athos towards his own bed since d'Artagnan was in the spare. In short order, he had Athos settled as well.

"We'll be back in an hour or two," Aramis assured quietly. Athos waved him away and rolled over to face the wall. Aramis stopped to check d'Artagnan and was pleased to find him sleeping.

This time when he reached the yard, Porthos was waiting with the horses.

"All tucked in?" the larger man asked with a grin.

"Like two little babes. Let's get going. I don't want to leave them for long."

Porthos chuckled and made a comment about Aramis _mothering_ them that the marksman decidedly ignored.

* * *

"Are you sure you're alright?" Aramis asked as they walked the horses back into the garrison an hour later. "You look pale."

"'M fine," Porthos insisted. "Just a bit dizzy."

"You fell off your horse," Aramis pointed out flatly.

"A lot dizzy then."

Aramis handed their reins off to Pierre, the stable boy, and pulled Porthos towards the stairs.

"You said you felt fine this morning."

"I _did_ ," Porthos defend sharply, then a bit more sullenly, "this morning…"

"To bed with you, just to be safe."

"You're over reactin'."

"You fell off your horse, Porthos," Aramis reminded. "You're lucky I was standing there and caught you or you might have been hurt."

"How'd you do that anyway?" Porthos demanded, wearily leading the way up the stairs. "Didn't know you were that strong."

"Well that was mildly insulting."

"I only mean I'm quite large and you're…well…"

"I'm not large?"

"Less large at least."

"You'll remember, I didn't so much _catch_ you as merely break your fall."

"Hmmm…'suppose so. Still..thanks for that."

"What are friends for if not to play the unexpected cushion," Aramis replied with a grin. He wouldn't mention the fresh bruises he was sporting from the whole event. He ushered Porthos into their room and sent him towards his bed to get comfortable.

A quick check on the others showed them both tossing and turning uncomfortably.

Aramis sighed and stripped out of his doublet, rolling up his sleeves.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Constance shifted her basket full of supplies to one arm and knocked lightly on the door before her. A pair of Musketeers awkwardly passed behind her, doing their level best to give her a respectable amount of space despite the narrowness of the balcony walkway. She glanced at them over her shoulder and smiled then glanced at the darkening sky.

She would have to hurry if she hoped to make it home before her husband got suspicious.

The door swinging open drew her attention back around and she smiled in greeting.

Aramis smiled back and stepped aside, welcoming her with a sweep of his arm.

"I got your message that d'Artagnan was ill and wouldn't be home," she commented as she lifted her basket onto the small table near the door. "I brought some…oh…"

She looked around the room, surprised to see all _three_ beds occupied.

"What's happened?" she asked, turning back to Aramis.

"Seems d'Artagnan thought it might be rude not to share," Aramis replied with a cheeky grin.

"I see," she chuckled, glancing around again.

Aramis was nothing if not efficient, she supposed. Each bed had an identical station set up next to it consisting of a bowl of water, a stack of fresh cloths, a cup, and a bucket. She looked back at the marksman and he smiled patiently.

"What?" she wondered.

"You came by to check on d'Artagnan?" he prodded kindly.

"Oh yes!" she agreed. Resting a hand on her basket she couldn't help but glance at the young Gascon on the bed nearest the door. He was tossing and turning and had a hand wrapped around his stomach, even in sleep. "I brought fresh clothes and some soup," she explained.

"That was beautifully thoughtful, Constance," Aramis praised warmly. "I'm sure he will appreciate it."

Constance blushed a little under the weight of Aramis' sincerity and busied herself unpacking the basket.

"I'll bring more soup tomorrow for the others," she decided aloud.

Aramis appeared at her side, resting a friendly hand on top of her own.

"Thank you," he replied earnestly.

Constance found herself smiling up at him and then she sighed and lifted her empty basket.

"I have to go," she stated regretfully, glancing forlornly at where d'Artagnan slept restlessly.

"I'll have someone walk you home," Aramis offered as he walked her to the door.

"No need for that," she assured. "I walked these streets for years before meeting you lot."

"Just the same," Aramis argued gently. "My mother would have my head if I let you walk home after dark alone."

Constance couldn't quite resist rolling her eyes.

"Fine," she allowed stepping out onto the balcony. "Will you be alright with them?"

Aramis motioned at a young Musketeer down in the yard and while the man was trotting up to them, he looked back at her in confusion.

"Of course," he answered as if such a question were unfathomable.

This time she didn't resist rolling her eyes at all.

"Just be sure to get yourself some rest too," she instructed firmly. "I'll stop in tomorrow."

The other Musketeer appeared next to them.

"James, please see that Madame Bonacieux arrives home safely."

"Yes, sir!" the young man replied enthusiastically.

"Don't…don't call me 'sir'," Aramis corrected with a weary shake of his head, as if this were a tiresome debate he'd had far too many times.

"Sorry, sir," James replied contritely.

Constance bit back a giggle and Aramis just sighed, shaking his head and looking back at her.

"Thank you for stopping by, Constance."

She smiled warmly and followed James down the stairs. She glanced back up at the boys' room in time to see Aramis disappearing back inside.

She would make time to come help him care for them tomorrow, she decided.

* * *

Constance wasn't able to come by at all the next day. Jacques had a sudden and urgent order to fill and she couldn't be spared. She felt terrible for not keeping her promise and hoped Aramis hadn't mentioned her plans to d'Artagnan. She would hate to have disappointed him.

She made a point to stop by first thing the following morning, though, bearing a basket full of fresh biscuits. She wouldn't be able to stay long, Jacques needed her to work today, but hopefully the gesture would be appreciated.

She greeted the Musketeer on guard at the gate and offered him a biscuit, which he happily accepted. The Captain was standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to his office, reading over what seemed to be newly delivered missives. He looked up at her approach.

"Madame Bonacieux," he greeted, eyebrow arched curiously. "What brings you to the garrison."

"I head a rumor you've got a few Musketeers that have taken ill," she replied.

Realization lit Treville's expression.

"Ah. Yes. Go ahead then. Maybe you can get him to rest," he stated before nodding farewell and trotting up the steps to his office.

D'Artagnan must be causing trouble. Likely trying to get back to duty before he was well enough for it. She would put a stop to that nonsense.

She strode across the yard with purpose and made her way up to the second level barracks. She rapped smartly on the door to the boys' room and drew back her shoulders, preparing to put her foot down as firmly as necessary to get d'Artagnan to cooperate.

"Come in, Constance," Aramis' voice rose from somewhere inside.

She hesitated for a moment and then pushed the door open, stepping inside and closing it firmly behind her.

From what Treville had said, she expected d'Artagnan to be up and about. Instead, he was asleep in his bed. He was bathed in sweat, but didn't seem as restless as he had last time she was there.

Aramis was across the room at Athos' side, carefully placing a folded cloth on his forehead. Porthos rested fitfully in the third bed.

She frowned, swallowed down her confusion, and placed the basket on the table.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked lightly, glancing at d'Artagnan again as if he might suddenly try to flee his bed.

Aramis stood from where he was stooped over Athos and gave her a mischievous grin over his shoulder.

"I've got to keep some mystery in our relationship, don't I?" he teased. He reached and held Athos wrist for a few moments, remaining absolutely still and seemingly focused. Then he rested the swordsman's arm back down and turned away, making his way to Porthos.

Constance watched him with growing confusion.

She couldn't be certain, but it seemed as if Aramis was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when she stopped by the evening before last. His hands seemed steady as they wet a fresh cloth and folded it, placing it gently on Porthos' brow, but there was a slight droop to his shoulders that she'd never seen before.

" _Maybe you can get him to rest."_ Those had been Treville's words. She realized with sudden clarity that he hadn't been speaking of d'Artagnan at all.

"I meant to come by yesterday," she started slowly, watching him with narrowed eyes as he picked up Porthos' wrist now, holding it with his fingers pressed against the inside. He didn't reply for several moments. But then he set Porthos' arm back on the bed and turned to her with a smile.

"I didn't tell him," Aramis assured, moving past her to d'Artagnan.

"That's not what I…" she shook her head. But then, it _had_ been what she was worried about before. Now, she was less concerned about d'Artagnan's feelings and more about the state of the marksman as he started mopping the sweat off d'Artagan. "Have you slept at all?" she demanded.

Aramis gave her another disarming smile over his shoulder.

"When I could," he assured.

She narrowed her eyes doubtfully.

"Have you eaten?"

He grimaced guiltily and pulled d'Artagnan's blanket back up where it had shifted too far down.

"He was never quite up to eating the soup, so I helped myself."

"Oh…" she blinked. "Well good." There was a beat of silence as he busied himself around the room and she watched. "I brought biscuits," she announced eventually.

He turned to her with that warm, sincere smile again.

"That was wonderfully thoughtful once again. Thank you, Constance."

Bloody hell. Jacques could wait a few minutes.

"How can I help?" she asked, shrugging off her shawl.

"You don't need to get back?" he replied as he moved around the room collecting the bedside buckets.

"Not for a bit," she assured.

"Then if you wouldn't mind seeing to d'Artagnan. His fever broke an hour ago and he's been sweating ever since."

"Of course." She nodded smartly and moved to the Gascon's bedside.

"I need to…" he lifted the buckets demonstratively and then jerked his head towards the door. "I'll be back."

She nodded and then he was gone.

"Well," she muttered to herself as she set about wiping away the sweat on d'Artagnan's forehead, "we are just going to have to fix that now, aren't we?" She gazed down fondly at d'Artagnan, sleeping peacefully. "Don't suppose you have any ideas of how to slow him down? No? Didn't think so."

* * *

Porthos woke to the sound of whispered voices.

"…she's been by several times and sat with you."

"Really?"

"She even mopped your sweaty brow," Aramis teased.

"Why would you let her do that? That's disgusting!" d'Artagnan protested.

"Don't be ridiculous. You should have seen the look on her face. Nothing but concern."

"Really?" d'Artagnan sounded positively moon-eyed.

"Yes. Now stop talking and _eat_."

There was silence again and Porthos supposed d'Artagnan had done as he was told. Soft footsteps indicated Aramis moving across the room.

"How's that biscuit treating you?" Aramis asked someone, Athos no doubt.

"Positively the most divine biscuit I've ever tasted," Athos replied dryly.

"Then perhaps you should eat more of it."

"Perhaps _you_ should."

"I ate most of them yesterday while you were busy sleeping," Aramis shot back.

"Testy, are you?"

"You're being impossible, you must be feeling better. If you want to be allowed back to duty soon, you better get back to eating."

"You're a tyrant."

"You're welcome."

Despite the argumentative words, Porthos could hear the smiles in their voices.

"Are you going to keep pretending to sleep, or would you like to try and eat something?"

Porthos opened one eye, grinned at Aramis standing over him and then opened the other.

"I feel like something died in my mouth," Porthos grumbled as Aramis helped him sit.

A cup of water was presented to him before he'd even finished the complaint.

"How long's it been?" he wondered after drinking.

"A few days," Aramis replied, holding out a biscuit. "They're a day old, but Constance is a divine cook."

Porthos took the biscuit and studied Aramis' face. Exhaustion lined the marksman's features and his eyes were bloodshot and the skin beneath them looked bruised.

"How many days?" he asked slowly.

"Doesn't matter now," Aramis countered. "Try to eat. Take it slow."

Porthos took a careful bite while watching Aramis flit around the room collecting clothes and bowls and buckets. He was moving too quickly, as if feeding off of some burst of energy.

Porthos looked over at Athos, brow arched.

The swordsman was watching Aramis too, but met Porthos gaze almost immediately. Athos nodded slowly and held up three fingers. Three days. And Aramis probably hadn't slept and barely ate in all that time. Athos saw the signs as clearly as Porthos did.

There was a crash coming. It was only a matter of time.

There was a sudden knock at the door and Aramis whirled towards it.

Porthos could almost _see_ the wave of dizziness that swept through him. Aramis swayed where he stood in the middle of the room. Porthos dropped his biscuit and kicked away his blankets, vaulting from the bed.

"Catch him!" Athos barked.

Porthos tried, but he knew he was still to weak to be fast enough.

D'Artagnan, though, managed to spring from his bed and cross the room in quick strides. He managed to slide under Aramis' arm and anchor the flagging man to his side.

Somebody knocked again, but they all ignored it.

Athos and Porthos both followed d'Artagnan back to the third bed where the Gascon carefully deposited Aramis, who for his part was now thoroughly unconscious.

The door suddenly swung open.

"Honestly, Aramis, were you just going to leave me out there…oh…"

Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan all looked over at her as she strode into the room and caught sight of them.

"What happened?" she demanded, pushing past them and pressing her hand to Aramis' brow.

"He just collapsed," d'Artagnan replied unhelpfully.

"He doesn't look like he's slept," Porthos fretted.

"Not for my lack of effort," Constance replied with a huff. "Honestly, I've never met someone so stubborn."

They all stared at her as she fussed over pulling off Aramis' boots and situating the blanket over him. She must have sensed their gazes because she turned to them with a frown.

"What? All of your fevers broke last night. Do you think I was coming by this morning for my good health? The man hasn't _stopped_ since you all fell ill three days ago. I did my best to make sure he ate but I couldn't get him to stop and sleep. I knew it was just a matter of time, with all of you on the mend, before it caught up to him. I'd been hoping to wrestle him into a bed before then."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and Porthos snorted. Athos just pressed his lips together to hide a grin. Constance frowned again and then rolled her eyes.

"Oh, you know what I meant!" she accused. "A bunch of _children_ , the lot of you. Now _you_ ," she pointed at Porthos, "get back to bed and eat that biscuit I see abandon on your blanket. And Athos, if there is even a crumb left of yours, you'll regret it."

"She's as bad as Aramis," Athos muttered to Porthos as they retreated.

"Wonderful…there's _two_ of them," Porthos responded.

"To _bed_ , you two!"

They quickly parted ways and did as they were bid. Porthos sat on his bed and retrieved his biscuit, watching with interest as Constance packed d'Artagnan's things, shoved his boots at his chest and sent him back to the boarding house to go back to bed. Looking a bit like a kicked, sulking puppy, d'Artagnan didn't dare argue.

But then, rather than follow the Gascon, Constance settled herself on the edge of the bed and pressed her hand to Aramis' forehead again.

"Fever?" Porthos couldn't help but ask, worry threaded into his tone.

"No," she assured with a sigh. "I think he's just tired, exhausted more like."

Porthos sat back with relief and took a bite of his biscuit. Across the room, Athos did the same. Eventually, Constance stopped staring at Aramis' lax features and adjusted his blanket before turning to regard each of them.

"He's done this before, hasn't he?" she asked knowingly.

Porthos sighed, but it was Athos that spoke.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"He wouldn't sleep. I tried to convince him," she insisted.

"We know," Porthos assured. "I'm sure you did your best. It's not your fault."

She glanced over at him, curiosity and worry at war in her gaze.

"Why did he do that to himself?"

"Aramis takes care of people. It's who he is," Porthos explained. "But after Savoy, he just..." Porthos shrugged helplessly.

"Got worse," Constance finished with a knowing nod. She knew the story, Aramis had told her himself. After the mess with Marsac, Constance had been the one to see that Aramis was spiraling. She'd been his saving grace that cursed day when Porthos and Athos had so spectacularly failed him.

Porthos nodded in agreement.

"It's not that we're not grateful for him. We are," he insisted.

"We just wish he expressed the same care for himself," Athos added.

Constance nodded silently, her gaze falling to Aramis' lax face again. She remained quietly contemplative for several moments before letting out a breath and standing.

"Well," she cleared her throat. "He liked my soup, so I'll bring some more back tomorrow. With any luck he'll sleep straight through until then."

Then she bid them goodbye, adjusted Aramis' blanket one last time, and left.

Porthos looked across the room to Athos who sighed.

"You should…" Athos started.

"Yeah." Porthos agreed. He stood and made his way to the bed by the door. He gently pushed at Aramis until the marksman muttered something unflattering under his breath and rolled over towards the wall. Porthos then stretched out next to him. The dreams would try to come, brought on by exhaustion. Such a thing was always a trigger for all the nastiness tied to Savoy. Porthos would keep them at bay best he could by remaining at Aramis' side. A warm body at his back to remind him, even in sleep, that he wasn't in the snowy forests of Savoy. And even more importantly: that he wasn't alone.

* * *

 _Yay another one in the books! Everybody got a little whump here! :D Hopefully another one of these in the next few days!_


	23. Grief

_Oh yeah, mojo is back. Here's another one in less than 24 hrs ;)_

 _Prompt: Grief_

* * *

Aramis wandered back into the tavern, anger and hurt rippling relentlessly through his mind and heart. He'd left Adele's hours ago, walking aimlessly through Paris as he attempted to sort through what had happened.

She'd left him. She'd chosen the Cardinal, and all his riches, over him.

Hours later, he had no more clarity on the matter, but to conclude that he couldn't blame her. What did Aramis have to offer her save a good romp in the sheets. What had he ever offered any woman but that.

He needed a drink.

He scanned the tavern out of habit, searching for the familiar faces of his brothers. Athos and Porthos were both gone, as he'd known they would be by now.

He looked right past d'Artagnan once before noticing him on his second scan of the room.

The Gascon was leaning forward against the table, exactly where Aramis had left him, an elbow braced on the surface and his head in his hand. He was staring into the depths of a cup as if it would answer life's most elusive questions.

Curious and vaguely concerned, Aramis made his way over, sliding into the seat Porthos had once occupied, putting himself across the table from the young man.

D'Artagnan looked up in surprise and then subtly – not subtly at all – wiped at his eyes. Concern over took Aramis' curiosity completely and after motioning the tavern keeper for a fresh bottle of wine, he leaned forward.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

D'Artagnan nodded quickly, straightening up and clearing his throat.

"I'm fine," he replied, but there was a strain in his voice that Aramis couldn't help but notice.

For the first time in hours, Adele drifted out of his thoughts as he focused fully on the boy before him, sifting through all he knew about him and what might be causing such emotional turmoil now.

D'Artagnan had come to Paris with his…oh… _oh…_

His father had been murdered only days ago. Of course. With the whole mess of Athos being framed, Aramis hadn't thought to much on why d'Artagnan had come tearing into the garrison intent on revenge.

Aramis sat back, rubbing his fingers over his mustache and down the sides of his mouth to his goatee.

Grief. The cruelest of mistresses.

One he, unfortunately, was well acquainted with. Some men, like Athos, preferred to be left alone with their troubles. Some, like Porthos, just needed support and the reliability of their brotherhood. Aramis internalized – unhealthily according to Porthos – and tended to pretend such unwanted emotions didn't exist.

What sort d'Artagnan was Aramis was about to find out.

"I'm not from Paris either," he commented idly.

D'Artagnan glanced at him with vague interest and a spark of curiosity.

"You might have noticed," Aramis motioned at his own face, "and I'm sure I lapsed to Spanish a time or two over the last few days. Stress brings it out sometimes and I don't always realize."

"Are you from Spain?" d'Artagnan asked quietly with a furtive glance around to be sure no one was listening too closely. Aramis was less concerned. The Spanish weren't loved in these parts, but neither were they hated, not by most.

"My mother was," he revealed, smiling at the tavern owner as he delivered the wine. The man, Claude, slapped Aramis on the shoulder warmly and went back to work. "She came to France with her parents when she was just a child. I was born in a small town on the coast of Southern France – Saint-Pierre."

"I've never heard of it," d'Artagnan replied with a shake of his head. But he had leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, eyes lighting with interest.

Aramis chuckled, pouring the wine into one of the cups left behind on the table – Porthos' he was fairly sure – and then more into d'Artagnan's.

"You wouldn't have. Very small town," he explained, then as an afterthought, "very _Catholic._ "

"Why did you leave? How did you become a Musketeer?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I left to live with my father," Aramis revealed carefully. "He could provide opportunities and education that my mother could not."

Had his mother known just what that 'education' would entail, Aramis was sure she would never have sent him away.

"They weren't…" d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably. "Your mother and father…"

"Married?" Aramis guessed. "No," he admitted, rubbing his fingers over a knot in the wooden top of the table. "My mother was widowed young, left with two other children, and my father was very charming."

"Is that where you get it?" d'Artagnan asked with a grin.

Aramis wanted to flinch at the comparison. But then, his father had taught him not to show such things.

"Perhaps," he allowed noncommittally. He wasn't prepared to get into the finer details of his sordid relationship with his father.

"I left with him when I was ten," Aramis went on, refocusing the story. "I came to Paris when I was sixteen and joined the infantry."

"Was your father a military man?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"Not as such," Aramis grimaced. His father had never served, but his training methods had been similar, had been worse, in fact, than anything Aramis had endured in the infantry. "He was furious with me for the decision."

"Wasn't one of the 'opportunities' he wanted to provide?" the Gascon guessed with a slight grin.

"No," Aramis agreed. "Such a position was beneath me in his eyes."

"He's a noble?" d'Artagnan asked with wide eyes.

"In no one's eyes but his own, I assure you," Aramis chuckled. "He disowned me for it, not that I had much legal right to anything anyway if anyone looked too closely. I was only a bastard after all."

D'Artagnan flinched. But there was no disgust in his expression. Aramis wondered if he was flinching at Aramis using so harsh a word to describe himself. Porthos hated it when he called himself that. Hated it more when someone else did.

"So you've been in the King's service since you were sixteen?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"I have. Served in the infantry for a year before I met Treville. A year more before he commissioned me into the Musketeers."

"You were commissioned at _eighteen_?" d'Artagnan squawked, nearly choking on the drink of wine he'd just taken.

Aramis chuckled.

"Still the youngest yet, I believe," he replied with a smirk.

D'Artagnan stared at him with something like awe in his eyes and then he grinned.

"And your mother?" the younger man asked. "What does she think of her son's chosen profession?"

Aramis felt his smirk fade to a sad smile as they circled to the whole reason he'd started this conversation.

"I like to believe she would be proud," he replied softly. He watched d'Artagnan frown in slow realization. "She died many years ago while I was living with my father."

D'Artagnan's breath hitched and his eyes welled.

"You never saw her again," the Gascon realized quietly. "After you left with him, you never saw her again."

Aramis shook his head.

"No," he confirmed around a sudden lump in his throat. Even after all these years, the grief was still there. "I never did."

He wouldn't tell d'Artagnan that his father had stolen letters from her. Letters pleading with him to come visit her one last time, to let her say goodbye. His terrible years as a d'Herblay were not why he'd told this story.

"But even so," he went on, waiting for d'Artagnan's gaze to meet his, "I still know, with absolute certainty, that she loved me fiercely. And that she knew I loved her too."

D'Artagnan bit his lip, looking away.

"Your father knew that too," Aramis added softly.

The young man's eyes swung back around to him, wide and wet with brimming moisture.

"It all happened so fast," d'Artagnan revealed around a hitched breath, "I didn't get a chance to tell him before…before he just _gone_."

"He knew," Aramis assured again.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat and sniffed, leaning back again in an attempt at nonchalance.

"It's hard," he admitted. "I still expect him to walk through the door or be just around the next corner. I feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder, but when I turn he's not there."

"I still hear her voice," Aramis replied. "My name in the wind as she called me home for some reason or another. It's been over ten years since I said goodbye to her, and I still hear her."

"So it never stops then? It will always feel like this?"

Aramis smiled softly and leaned forward to brace his elbow on the table, absently fidgeting with his mostly full cup of wine.

"I pray I never stop hearing her," he admitted. "But it does get easier," he assured. "It has become a comfort now and not a source of sorrow. A way to remember that she is always with me."

D'Artagnan smiled weakly.

"How long did that take?" he asked.

"Quite some time," Aramis admitted. " _But_ I did find that it became a lot easier when I realized something."

"What?" d'Artagnan wondered hopefully.

Aramis smiled, drained his wine and poured another.

"That I am not alone." With that he raised his cup to d'Artagnan in salute and drained it again.

D'Artagnan chuckled and lifted his own cup, then followed Aramis' example.

Aramis lifted the bottle and refilled them both.

* * *

 _I loved this one. I hope you did too. "not alone" is a point Porthos has been driving home with Aramis since Savoy. Looks like it stuck and now he's passing the knowledge on._

 _More soon!_


	24. Drowning

_Heyyyyy...so I'm back again! I'm finding a better balance now so I should be able to find more time to write and hopefully get these whumptober prompts done soon haha. It's not like it's been almost a year or anything..oh wait. Anyway, enjoy! A foray into my Modern AU again! Barely edited - be kind and forgiving haha!_

 _Prompt: Drowning_

* * *

Porthos wiped water off his face and shifted along the smooth, white outer wall of the yacht. A glance up showed Aramis pulling himself over the railing on the second level deck.

Good.

He'd be able to infiltrate the bridge from there and take control of the vessel. He'd then start sweeping the yacht from top down, dealing with any hostiles. That would leave Porthos free to seek out their target.

He held his position patiently, waiting for Aramis to give him the signal. There wasn't a sound from above, but he knew Aramis was as deadly in silence as he was behind the scope of a rifle.

Then his earpiece clicked, breaking the radio silence they'd held until now.

" _Bridge is secure, Outlaw. Staring my sweep."_

Porthos didn't reply, couldn't risk being heard. But now he moved.

He made it to the stairs that would lead below deck without issue. But it wasn't until he stepped down onto the lower deck that he knew something was wrong.

The lower deck was deserted. There was no sign of the target or that anyone had been down here at all. The door at the top of the stairs suddenly slammed closed and Porthos whirled, eyes going wide as gunfire erupted up on the deck.

"Diablo!" he shouted, climbing the stairs three at a time. "Diablo, status?! Answer me, damn it!"

He tried the door, found it locked, and then threw his shoulder into it.

It didn't budge.

"Come on," he growled.

He stepped back, holding tightly to the hand rails and drew in a breath.

Then he kicked the door with every ounce of strength he possessed.

And nearly fell backwards down the steep steps when it didn't give.

More gunfire echoed from beyond the door.

"Diablo, answer me!"

The door suddenly clanged and Porthos drew his weapon. It swung open a moment later to reveal familiar grinning marksman.

"Outlaw, I do believe this was a trap," Aramis commented cheerily.

Porthos pointed his gun back down and stepped forward, latching onto Aramis' shoulder with his free hand. He felt none of the humor for the situation his brother seemed to.

There was fresh blood on Aramis' face and quite a bit on his TAC vest.

"Are you hit?" he demanded, urgently patting his hands over Aramis' torso.

Aramis chuckled, rather annoyingly, and waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh that? That's not mine."

"Is that yours?" Porthos asked, flicking a finger against the largest of the bleeding cuts peppered across the left side of Aramis' brow.

Aramis shoved his hand away with a scowl.

"Relax. It was just shrapnel. A bullet caught a doorframe as I ducked through it." Aramis mimed a small explosion with his right hand and then motioned at the scratches and cuts on his face demonstratively.

Porthos did not, however, relax.

"How many are left?" he demanded, glancing around warily. It was quiet – too quiet.

"Six or seven at least," Aramis replied without any real concern. He casually checked the ammunition in his side arm and then grinned at Porthos. "This has certainly gotten exciting, hasn't it?"

Porthos wanted to be annoyed, but ended up just shaking his head in amused affection.

"You enjoy this too much," he accused lightly.

"And you don't?" Aramis challenged with a quirk of his brow.

Porthos just rolled his eyes.

"Let's go." He gave Aramis a light shove.

Aramis' entire persona shifted. The humor faded away and ruthless intensity took its place as he led the way towards the outer deck. Porthos stuck to his shoulder, covering Aramis' blind spots and mentally counting the steps until they would be out on the deck. Their raft was tied on the opposite end of the yacht, so they had to get there or they'd be stuck swimming to shore. They weren't too far off land, but far enough. Such a swim would be push even the limits of their highly trained endurance.

The longer they went without encountering anyone, the more tension tightened in Porthos' shoulders.

"Something's not right," Aramis breathed over his shoulder.

With any less history between them, Porthos might have been spooked by how perfectly in line their thoughts were. But as it was, such a thing was a regular occurrence, so he just nodded his agreement.

They were fifteen feet from where they'd tied their raft when Aramis suddenly went rigid.

Porthos didn't ask, he didn't even wonder. Aramis had a knack for sensing impending danger, a skill sharpened brutally by the Savoy Operation. So, when Aramis reached back to propel him the last of the distance to the rail, Porthos was already in motion.

Gunfire erupted from somewhere behind them and even as they threw themselves over the rail and towards the water, Porthos felt the impact of two bullets hit his back in quick succession. It was like getting hit by a sledge hammer. The air gasped out of his lungs as he fell toward the water and he had no time to properly draw a breath back in before he landed.

And then he simply couldn't move. His limbs seized up and his lungs screamed in protest as the water swallowed him.

Then he was sinking.

* * *

Aramis surfaced with a gasp, coughing out a mouth full of water and flinging his hair out of his eyes. A flash of movement caught his eye and he looked up in time to see men leaning over the rail with guns.

He propelled himself back underwater and swam forward, towards the yacht. He knew it was too dark for them to see him in the water, so simply taking himself out of the line of fire would be sufficient. When he surfaced this time, he did it silently, ghosting up to the smooth edge of the yacht and pressing himself against it.

He blinked water out of his eyes and spotted their raft a mere arms' length away.

"Sink that damn thing! Let them swim to shore!" somebody shouted from above and Aramis closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the side of the boat as gunfire erupted again. Moments later the raft was deflating and taking on water.

It was only when he heard the yacht engines churn to life again that he realized he was alone. He hadn't heard Porthos surface. Aramis felt panic tighten his chest and he pushed away from the yacht, aiming for where Porthos should have landed. He dove underwater, blinking away the initial sting of salt water in his eyes. It was night, and of course he couldn't see a damn thing. He heard the vibration of the yacht engines as it moved away, but he ignored it. Instead, he propelled himself to the surface again.

He forced himself to take deep, full breaths and blow them out just as completely. Then he dug his flashlight out of his vest and drew in one last breath and dove down again.

The flashlight was powerful, though small and cut a into the darkness a few feet in whichever direction he pointed it.

Panic crept in as he looked around and saw nothing, no sign of Porthos.

He kicked deeper, sweeping the light around in a slow arc, worried to miss something. But there was nothing.

Deeper.

His lungs started to burn, but he told himself to do one more sweep. Then he could surface, take a breath and try again. In the back of his mind a clock ticked away with how long Porthos had already been under water.

He was just about to kick back up to the surface when a shadow caught the edge of the light beam. He propelled himself towards it and as he grew closer, the shadow took form.

Cold, ruthless fear sliced through his chest.

 _Porthos._

Had he any breath, he might have screamed it out. But instead he kicked his legs hard and rocketed the last few feet. Porthos' eyes were closed, limbs loose. Aramis wrapped an arm around him, anchoring the unconscious – _not dead, God please not dead_ – man to his chest and surged for the surface.

His own lungs felt as if they were tearing apart in his chest, but he didn't falter.

Finally, mercifully, they broke the surface and Aramis gasped in a sharp breath. Porthos was limp against him and Aramis snapped into action, every survival training course he'd participated in surging forward in his brain. Resuscitating someone while in the water wasn't easy, but it was possible.

Porthos weight threatened to drag them both back under, but Aramis ruthlessly forced his own legs to keep chopping in the water, fighting to keep both their heads above the surface. Then he did his level best to encourage the water out of Porthos' lungs.

The seconds it took for anything to happen felt like hours. But then Porthos was coughing, water erupting from his mouth like a fountain. Then the larger man drew in a raged breath and Aramis dropped his own head back in relief.

"I've got you," he promised, anchoring Porthos to him more securely and taking a moment to get his bearings. His own heart pounded in his ears and his lungs still spasmed annoyingly as he gasped in oxygen.

Land was east. He adjusted his hold on Porthos so he could see his watch. The handy little built in compass gave him a direction.

Then he swam.

* * *

Athos held the night vision binoculars to his face and scanned the water for the hundredth time, willing something to appear in his field of vision. He and d'Artagnan had finished their side of the mission an hour ago, met at the rendezvous, and tuned their comms to the frequency Aramis and Porthos would be on. The first and only thing they heard was gunfire, then the line went abruptly to static and had remained so ever since.

"Anything?" Athos snapped at d'Artagnan where the boy was scanning the water a bit further down the beach.

"No," came the immediate reply. Then suddenly, "Wait! There! Your 2 o'clock!"

Athos shifted his binoculars. He looked right past it at first, but then quickly shifted back, more slowly.

 _There_.

A dark mass moving slowly through the water towards shore.

He dropped the binoculars and ran into the water.

"Call in an extraction!" he barked to d'Artagnan who had moved to follow him.

Athos waded as deeply as he could, shivering against the chill in the water. He'd gotten up to his chest when he caught sight of them again, this time with his own eyes. He pushed his feet off the sand and swam towards them.

"Aramis?! Porthos?!" he called as he drew closer.

The two were tangled together, Porthos anchored to Aramis' side as the marksman propelled himself with his legs and one arm. Fear cut through Athos' heart. Porthos wasn't moving.

"Aramis!" he called sharply, close enough now that he reached out and touched him.

Aramis snarled at him and then kept up his same methodical one-armed strokes.

Even more worried now, Athos swam next to them, subtly pushing Porthos along but allowing Aramis to continue unheaded.

Finally, his feet touched down again and Athos fought against the water to get ahead of them.

"Aramis!" he called.

The marksman didn't seem to hear him.

Athos reached out, wrapping both hands around Aramis' jaw and curling his fingers around the back of his neck.

"Aramis!"

Aramis recoiled, flailing to a stop and shifting to shield Porthos behind him.

"It's me!" Athos assured firmly. "It's Athos!"

Some of the defensive fight faded from Aramis' gaze and recognition seeped in its place.

"It's me," Athos said again, more gently now. "Let me help you. Let me take him."

Aramis' brow drew together in confusion and Athos felt his worry for the marksman spike up just a little.

"Porthos, Aramis, let me take Porthos," he explained.

Aramis shifted, and Athos saw the exact moment he realized his feet could touch the ground. Relief so tangible that Athos felt it by extension swept across his face. Athos stamped down on his own impatience. He knew he would have to let Aramis _give_ him Porthos. Trying to take him before Aramis was ready would only lead to defensive violence.

Aramis' arm around the larger man tightened and his gaze drifted back up to meet Athos'.

"P'th's…" he managed to slur out.

Athos nodded and shifted closer, reaching slowly towards the unconscious Musketeer.

"Let me take him," Athos suggested calmly. "You got him this far. I'll get him the rest of the way. I promise."

It spoke to Aramis' unwavering trust in him that the vow did the trick. Aramis willingly shifted Porthos into Athos' waiting arms.

"Now walk, Aramis. Walk towards the shore."

Even in the moonlight, Athos could see that Aramis was pale and something in his eyes was a shade away from fully coherent. But even so, Aramis dutifully pushed his way forward at Athos' instruction.

Athos anchored Porthos to himself and then turned toward shore. He was relieved to see d'Artagnan coming towards them. With a jerk of his head, Athos directed the younger man towards Aramis and then focused on keeping Porthos above water as they moved. D'Artagnan reached them and immediately slid up to Aramis' side, wrapping an arm around his back and a hand around his bicep.

"P'th's…" Aramis muttered blearily again, pulling against d'Artagnan's hold.

"I've got him, Aramis," Athos promised. "Let d'Artagnan help you."

Aramis complied without further protest, still trusting Athos.

"Did he swim them the whole way back?" d'Artagnan asked over Aramis' wearily bowed head.

Athos just shook his head and quirked his brow helplessly. He didn't know. And neither man was in any shape to tell them what the hell had happened.

Finally, the water receded behind them and Athos was able to lay Porthos out on the sand, leaning immediately to check his breathing.

A bit shaky, but there.

D'Artagnan managed to control Aramis' descent to his hands and knees and kept the man from simply sprawling onto his face.

"How long?" Athos asked sharply, keeping one hand steady on Porthos' chest.

D'Artagnan checked his watch.

"Less than two minutes now," he assured.

Athos nodded, relieved. Aramis shifted on shaky arms and wrapped his fingers in the long sleeve of Porthos' black shirt.

"B-breathing?" he asked shakily.

"Yes," Athos reported. "Shaky, but consistent."

Aramis nodded, head dropping nearly to the sand. Then he just wilted, supporting arm folding beneath him and sending him rolling to his back. By the time he settled in the undignified sprawl, his eyes were closed.

"Aramis?!" d'Artagnan scrambled closer, pressing his fingers to Aramis' neck. He looked up and met Athos' wide eyes. "Alive."

Athos let out a shaky sigh and closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest.

They waited in silence for the sound of the helicopter coming to retrieve them.

* * *

Porthos pushed aside the cotton trying to smother his mind and fought his way towards the garbled voices he could hear echoing above him. He knew those voices.

Athos.

D'Artagnan.

But he didn't hear Aramis. Alarm sliced through him and he fought harder to force himself to the surface. He smelled the tell-tale scents of a room in the infirmary. Aramis was never away from his side when he was injured.

Unless something kept him away. Like injury of his own. Or the time he'd been arrested immediately upon delivering Porthos to the infirmary.

But if he was able, nothing could keep Aramis from his side in moments like these.

Porthos forced his eyes open and blinked blearily at the dim lights above him.

"Porthos?"

Athos face materialized above him and slowly came into focus.

"'Mis?" Porthos rasped out, wincing at how dry his throat and mouth were.

"He's okay," Athos assured immediately. "He's over there."

Athos tilted his head somewhere to their left and Porthos undertook the monumentally taxing task of rolling his head that direction.

Aramis was there, just as Athos promised. He was sprawled on a hospital bed of his own, hooked to an IV and thoroughly unconscious.

Porthos blinked and felt some of the fuzziness fade. He shifted, pushing himself up on the bed. Pain flared in his back and he froze.

"Cracked ribs," d'Artagnan informed him from where he was sitting in a chair near the window. "I wouldn't move too much."

"What happened?" Porthos asked, voice rough with disuse.

Athos wordlessly passed him a small cup of water with a straw. Once he'd taken a drink, Athos took it back and set it aside.

"We were hoping you could tell us," the team leader replied carefully.

Porthos frowned, trying to think of how they ended up here. A vision of a yacht flashed across his mind. Then of Aramis grinning at the top of some stairs. He closed his eyes, thinking harder.

" _This has certainly gotten exciting, hasn't it?"_

He saw Aramis go still as they moved through the yacht and knew the shit was rapidly heading for the fan. There was a flurry of running and then the sharp rapport of gunfire and then nothing but pain and instinctive fear.

"I was shot," he murmured, opening his eyes, "as we were jumping the railing." Then he met Athos gaze steadily. "It was a trap."

Athos' brow arched at that and he shared a look with d'Artagnan. The younger man nodded and stood, striding purposefully from the room. Likely to alert Treville. Athos looked back at him then.

"What else?"

"I don't remember," Porthos admitted reluctantly. "I hit the water and everything kind of fades away."

"So you went in the water at the boat's location?" Athos asked, eyebrow arching.

Porthos nodded.

Athos glanced at Aramis and then dropped wearily into a seat positioned between the two beds.

"He swam you back," Athos revealed.

Porthos' brows rose in surprise.

"It was too far to swim," he stated reflexively.

"Yes, well he did it anyway and towed you along for the ride."

"He's okay though?" Porthos asked in concern, wholly unsurprised that Aramis had done something most would find impossible. When the alternative was death, they had all gone beyond that which should be possible many times.

"Exhausted," Athos sighed. "He collapsed moments after we made it to shore. He has strained ligaments and muscles all through his back, shoulders and legs. Everything started cramping up a few hours ago. He didn't say anything when it started – you know how he is…"

Porthos grimaced.

He knew.

He knew Aramis had a bad habit of taking pain without a word of complaint, of accepting it as common course. It tore Porthos apart to watch it, and he was selfishly glad he hadn't been awake to see his brother suffering in stubborn silence.

"…and then once we figured it out, he got stubborn about pain meds."

"He hates how they muddle him up," Porthos reminded quietly. Years after the Savoy Operation and Aramis still hated letting his guard down, hated feeling vulnerable. It had only been his sharp mind and formidable combat skill that had saved him in Savoy – Aramis would never willingly give up his hold on either now.

"Yes, well, the doctor didn't care. They sedated him."

Porthos glowered and fought down the urge to seek out their doctor and punish him for his audacity.

"He won't come out of it well," he warned Athos. "He'll be confused and defensive."

"I know," Athos assured with a sigh. "I'm not going anywhere. He won't wake up alone."

Porthos bit back an accusation that Athos wouldn't be enough. Athos loved Aramis as a brother, just as Porthos did. Though he didn't share the history that Porthos did with their sniper, he knew that Aramis trusted Athos. Maybe he _would_ be enough.

Besides, if need be, Porthos would just drag himself out of his own bed to Aramis' side – cracked ribs be damned.

"I'll see if they can shift things and put your bed closer to his. That would help too," Athos added thoughtfully.

Porthos offered a grateful smile. Not at all surprised that Athos had read him so easily.

Athos managed a weary smile in return and then eyed Porthos carefully.

"They said you had water residue in your lungs. Signs of drowning."

Porthos' eyes widened.

"I don't remember…"

"I suppose you wouldn't," Athos allowed. "You were breathing when he got you to shore, so he must have cleared your lungs in the water. They want to keep you here for 48 hours regardless."

Porthos stared across the room at the slow, steady rise and fall of Aramis' chest. They were both alive, _somehow_ , despite insurmountable odds. It wasn't the first time. He prayed it wouldn't be the last time – that it would _never_ be the last time.

* * *

 _So i'm head over heels in love with this ModernAU! That being said, I'm considering doing a oneshot compilation - basically a bunch of one shots set in my modern AU all kept together as chapters in one fic instead of individual posting. Sound like something y'all would like? Yay? Nay? That way I could satisfy my modern au urges while still working on my next long fic haha_

 _more soon! I hope!_


	25. Gagged

_Hey hey hey! So I actually have several of these done and will post one a day until I'm done with last years Whumptober prompts! Woohoo! Then I'm gonna get a jump start on writing this years so that I can be ahead of the curve and hopefully not take a year to finish them this time HAHA. Anyway, enjoy! In the Modern AU for this one!_

 _Prompt: Gagged_

* * *

Porthos closed his eyes with a sigh, shaking his head slightly at the string of rapid fire Spanish coming from his brother. He didn't even understand what Aramis was saying aside from the stray curse or insult, but the intent behind the words was obvious. Aramis had always had the ability to thread threats of violence into conversation with nothing more than his tone.

The atmosphere in the room chilled as the tension ratcheted up a few notches. Clearly, the men interrogating them heard the threat as clearly as Porthos did, though he was sure they didn't understand the actual words either.

"Shut him up," one of the men growled to the other.

"You shut him up!" the second man snapped back.

Porthos watched, slightly awed as the two slid wary glances at Aramis – who had gone menacingly silent – and then glared at each other.

"Now, now, this is no time to be shy," Aramis taunted, doing that thing with his voice again. The words seemed non-threatening on the surface, but the _way he said them_ …there was a promise of violence.

Porthos used the two men's distraction to carefully retrieve one of the paper clips he kept hidden on his uniform.

"I said shut him up!" The first man shoved the other a step closer to Aramis.

Porthos barely held back a snort when the man stumbled and quickly retreated from Aramis' vicinity again.

Most people underestimated his brother. Aramis went to lengths to ensure it, in fact. He guided people into thinking he was the weakest link, the one that didn't need to be watched as closely. It was an invaluable skill, one that had saved them many times.

But sometimes Aramis went the opposite direction. Sometimes, he went out of his way to draw attention to himself, to make himself seem the _biggest_ threat. He did this, without fail, to draw that attention _away_ from someone else.

Right now, he was drawing attention away from Porthos. All it had taken was two punches and one hit with a cattle prod for Aramis to start spitting fire, doing his best to draw the negative attention to himself.

Porthos hated it when he did this, even if he did understand it. Hell, he had done the same thing when the situations were reversed. Some deeply ingrained part of him viscerally rejected the thought of Aramis being hurt in any way. It was the part of him that had met a wild, hot tempered, smart mouthed twelve-year-old all those years ago and felt instant brotherhood, despite being two years older. He had known, the moment he met Aramis, that they were meant to become family.

A crackle of electricity had Porthos' gaze snapping up. He growled low in his throat as he watched the men jab the cattle prod against Aramis' chest. The assault left Aramis disoriented enough that one of the men scrambled closer, jerking a dirty bandana between Aramis' teeth and tying it tightly in place.

"There," the man with the cattle prod grinned wickedly, "that's better."

Aramis rolled his neck, shaking his head slightly to clear it. Then he fixed his gaze unerringly on Porthos, question in his eyes.

Porthos hesitated. He didn't want Aramis to take any more punishment. It was, in fact, the absolute last thing he wanted. But, the paper clip between his fingers was ready and if Aramis could buy him just a little more time, Porthos would be free.

So, he gave a slight shake of his head. He wasn't ready. He needed more time.

Aramis immediately shifted his attention back to their captors.

"Wa' i' 'ome'hin' I 'aid?" he spoke around the gag.

Porthos winced, watching Aramis work his jaw, trying to find some relief from the constant pull of the bandana against the back of his mouth.

"Seriously?' the one with the cattle prod growled. "Don't you ever stop talking?"

"Someti'es," Aramis replied darkly. Even with the gag, the promise of violence hung on every nuance of his speech. The lingering question of what exactly the one word reply _meant_ seemed to weigh on their captors for a moment.

Porthos shifted his makeshift key into the lock on his cuffs.

"Looks like I'll have to work a little harder to shut you up," the man decided. Then he shoved the cattle prod against Aramis' side.

Porthos closed his eyes, tuning out Aramis' grunt of pain and focusing all of his energy onto the paperclip in his fingers as he worked it into the lock. His hands were bound behind him, through the rungs of a metal chair. But he'd picked a lock in more awkward positions.

Seconds later, the ring of metal around his wrist loosened. Porthos pulled his arms slowly back around, quickly unlocking the second cuff from his other wrist. Then he finally turned his full attention back to his brother.

Aramis was curled forward as far as his own bound arms would let him, breathing harsh and sharp around the gag. There was fresh blood dripping from his brow – they must have thrown a punch or two in there while Porthos was distracted – but it was the twin burn holes in shoulder of Aramis' t-shirt that brought fury boiling up into Porthos' heart.

He silently stood and wrapped his hands around the chair back that had just confined him. Without uttering a warning, he brought the metal chair down hard on the head of the man with the cattle prod. Then immediately swung it left, smashing it into the other man's face.

They both dropped into bleeding, unmoving heaps.

Aramis sat back, chuckling breathlessly around the gag, his chest heaving with uneven, stuttered breaths.

"Alright?" Porthos asked, tossing the chair aside and stepping closer.

Aramis nodded, but the thin trail of blood snaking down the side of his brother's face tore at Porthos heart. He reached forward, pulling Aramis' head at an angle so he could see the wound better. Without meaning too, his eyes trailed to the furrowed scar hidden beneath the hair on the same side of Aramis' head. Head wounds were messy business with Aramis since that clusterfuck Savoy operation.

Aramis pulled his head free, jutting his jaw a little to draw attention to the gag still keeping him mostly silenced.

Porthos sat back on his heels, regarding Aramis with a teasing grin.

"Maybe they had the right idea. They _do_ say silence is golden."

"D'n 'e 'n ass'ole."

"Sorry, what's that?" Porthos feigned confusion. "I can't hear you over the blessed silence."

Aramis' glare promised retribution for the teasing.

Porthos chuckled and reached for the knot. It only took him a moment to have it loosened and he pulled it free of Aramis' teeth.

Aramis jerked his head back from the fabric immediately, coughing and then spitting onto the ground.

"I feel like I need to disinfect my mouth."

"What color do you suppose that was to begin with?" Porthos asked about the nasty brownish green bandana while he set to work freeing Aramis' wrists.

"Can you drink hand sanitizer?" Aramis asked instead of answering.

"I don't think it's recommended," Porthos replied with a chuckle, pulling the metal bands free of Aramis' wrists. "Free at last."

"Let's get out of here before Athos shows up and takes the credit for saving us."

"Right, because clearly 'credit' is the most important thing here."

" _Clearly_ we don't need rescuing," Aramis shot back. "But you know what his timing is like."

"Oh yes," Porthos agreed as they headed for the door, "just after the real work has been done."

"He still likes to say _he_ saved _me_ from that mess in Morocco."

"'Mis, when he got to you, they had you in the back of a cargo plane," Porthos pointed out as they made their way carefully out into the hallway.

"Yes, but I had just gotten loose of the ropes, so clearly I had it well in hand."

"Clearly."

A hostile came around the corner ahead of them. Aramis darted forward to engage him, but Porthos just leaned casually against the wall and watched his brother efficiently and ruthlessly take the man down. Aramis turned back to him, checking the rifle he'd taken from the downed man.

"You're a helpful one," he scolded with an arched eyebrow.

"Just wanted you to feel important. Wouldn't want you accusing me of stealing the credit for our escape."

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Clearly, you're an asshole."

"Clearly," Porthos agreed with a grin.

* * *

 _This one took me forever. I rewrote it COMPLETELY four times with wildly different plots before settling on this one and being happy haha_

 _another one coming your way tomorrow!_


	26. Outnumbered

_As promised! Look for another one tomorrow! Back in their proper time for this one!_

 _Prompt: Outnumbered_

* * *

"You know, I don't know how we keep finding ourselves in these situations," Aramis commented as he shifted backwards. Porthos felt Aramis' shoulder press against his own. Athos completed their defensive triangle on Porthos' other side.

"If the Captain's ravings are to be trusted, it's because you attract trouble," Porthos replied, lifting his sword in a threatening motion to keep the mass of bandits surrounding them a bit more at bay.

" _Me?_ " Aramis protested loudly, slicing his rapier neatly across the chest of a bandit that venture too close.

"Surely you aren't denying it," Athos put in.

Aramis scoffed.

"Of course not. One doesn't live the life I have without acknowledging a certain attraction for trouble. But to imply that _you two_ don't bear the same attraction, is ridiculous."

Porthos glanced over his shoulder at Athos.

"Sounds like he's blaming us for this mess."

"It does indeed," Athos agreed.

"Not _blaming_ …" Aramis argued, darting forward to fend off a few encroaching bandits. Athos and Porthos did the same before the three of them retreated back to press their shoulders together. "…just pointing out the facts."

"'Facts' he says," Porthos chuckled.

"Do you deny, dear Porthos, that you tend to attract your own sort of trouble, just as I do?!" Aramis accused over his shoulder just before stepping away to deal with another bandit. Porthos waited for his brother to step back, shoulder pressed to his, before replying.

"I suppose you have a point. What about Athos, though?"

"Oh, I think we can all acknowledge that Athos attracts quite his own brand of trouble."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Athos denied.

Porthos and Aramis both chuckled now.

"'Doth protest too much, I think," Aramis teased.

"Perhaps, I do attract a bit of my own trouble, but _this_ particular situation is just the sort you two always seem to find yourselves in," Athos replied primly.

They all broke away to fight off and push back the men surrounding them. When, once again, they found themselves with their shoulders pressed together, Porthos looked out over the horde of men pressing in on them.

He glanced at Aramis over his shoulder.

"You know, he's not wrong."

Aramis did that little grin of his, that grin that suggested he enjoyed the thrill of battle just a bit too much.

"I will admit that Athos' trouble tends to be a bit more dignified."

Porthos snorted, looking around them, assessing the situation. They couldn't win, he realized suddenly. There were too many of them. He was already bleeding from a cut on his arm and another low on his side. He could see blood smeared across Aramis' shoulder though he wasn't sure of the source and Athos was favoring his left leg.

Porthos nearly _felt_ the shift in Aramis as he came to the same conclusion.

On his other side, Athos took a step further back, pressing his shoulders more firmly into theirs.

"No," Aramis snapped. "This is _not_ our day to die. So no dramatic speeches about how much we mean to each other or how we all imagined we'd die by each other's side."

"'Mis," Porthos started lowly. Because if _this_ was how they died, he didn't want to go before he said exactly what Aramis had just forbidden.

"No one is dying," Aramis all but shouted. Then, more calmly, he jutted his chin at the men surrounding them. "No one but them."

Porthos sighed out a breath and nodded.

"Let's get to it then," he stated.

"All for one," Athos replied firmly.

"And one for all," he and Aramis answered together.

And then they sprang apart.

The next minutes were a blur of blood and clangs of steel. Porthos remained aware of Athos in his periphery, but Aramis stayed out of sight, a presence at Porthos back, always. He couldn't say how much time had passed before new shouts filled the air followed by an explosion of gunfire. Considering Aramis had used up all his pistol shots early on in the conflict, the sound was enough to draw Porthos attention.

He spun, nearly sagging in relief when he saw their Captain riding in with half the regiment behind him.

It was over in minutes after that.

Porthos turned the tip of his sword into the ground, dropping to one knee as he fought to catch his breath. He turned his head and saw Athos dispatching his last opponent. Then the man dropped down to sit on the ground, sword resting across his knees. Porthos turned further, looking over his shoulder.

Aramis was on one knee as well, an arm braced across the one bent up. He waved his fingers in greeting, but mostly seemed to be focusing on breathing. Porthos staggered up and made his way in that direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos do the same until they both knelt back down next to Aramis.

"See…" Aramis said, wiping a dirty, bloody hand across his forehead and leaving a grotesque smear in its wake, "not our day to die."

"When you're right, you're right," Porthos admitted.

"Seems you might have cut it a bit closer than we would like," Athos pointed out, nodding at the blood nearly soaking Aramis' doublet. Aramis didn't even look at where Athos had indicated. He just waved his fingers dismissively.

"Not mine. Not all of it at least."

"How much of it?" Porthos pressed.

"Not enough for all worrying you two are building up to."

"Historically, you've proven unreliable for such assessments," Athos replied.

Aramis was prevented from replying by a shadow looming over them.

"You three alright?" the captain asked.

"Aramis is covered in blood," Porthos announced.

"Not my own," Aramis reminded.

"Because you've proven so trustworthy in judging that for yourself?" Treville challenged.

Aramis rolled his eyes, flopping back onto his rear with a dramatic sigh.

"Outnumbered once again, this time by mother hens."

* * *

 _hope you enjoyed this one! see you tomorrow! :)_


	27. Surrender

_This one is a little different. It's not an actual scene, it's more...idk. you'll see haha. It's the ModernAU, but set when they were children._

 _Prompt: Surrender_

* * *

Aramis had always been a fighter.

He had learned from the best example. His mama had been a fighter too, down to her very core.

She had fought an uphill battle against a world that wanted to knock her down. She'd clawed for every inch, battled for every penny, and always, _always_ put him and his siblings first. She worked long hours, cleaning houses for people that barely looked her in the eye. She worked nights at a diner, scraping by on tips and the generosity of strangers.

She had taught him what it meant to be strong, to be brave, to be kind. She'd written the lessons on his heart from infancy. She had always told him to be strong in a world that would try to break him. To be brave in a world where people let fear control them. And to be kind in a world that would rather be cruel.

He'd clung to those lessons when she got sick. Even at ten years old, he had understood what was happening. He had watched cancer strip away the strength of the strongest woman he knew. But still she had remained brave. Still she had remained kind.

Vincent and Sabine ran away less than a week before she died.

He'd hated those lessons then. He'd been angry and scared and so, so alone.

But he had held her hand as she died and promised to be everything she had taught him. He'd cried, alone, at her bedside until the landlord came for the rent the next day and found him.

The day he was shuffled into the first of what would become a long line of foster homes, he'd heard her words whispered through the air around him. Be strong, be brave, be kind.

He kept her with him by remembering her lessons.

With a heart raw with loss, he spent the next two years learning what it meant to be alone in the world. What it meant to have no one who truly cared, no one to protect you, no one to love you.

His strength was fostered within, making him strong as steel. His bravery was born in the face of bullies, standing up to them with a stiff spine and not an ounce of fear in his eyes. His kindness was shown quietly, through small gestures to those that were younger and more afraid than him.

But through it all, from home to home, he learned most of all to trust no one, rely on no one, and expect nothing from anyone.

He had just turned twelve when he was moved to a new home, another in a long line that he didn't expect to remain at for long. He had a fiery temper when it came to bullies and fighting was never tolerated.

He hadn't been the only new addition to the home that day. A tall, broad boy with curly black hair had been waiting in the dining room when Aramis' social worker walked him in.

Porthos was two years older than him, and Aramis had been sure the larger boy would be just like every other bully he'd faced over the years.

But Porthos had been the exact opposite of what Aramis expected.

As he had settled into the chair across the dining room table, the larger boy had smiled at him, eyes shining with kindness.

" _I'm Porthos,"_ he'd said, _"I s'posse we're kind of like brothers now."_

Aramis had stared at him, confused and skeptical.

" _We're not brothers,"_ he had said. _"We're just kids nobody wants."_

He had seen something pass through Porthos' gaze then, something he didn't understand and wouldn't understand until years later.

Porthos had adopted him in that moment.

Aramis fought it. He fought the kind words. He fought the protective gestures. He fought the comradery and the friendship Porthos offered at every turn. It wasn't worth it. He never stayed in a home for long. They would just be separated in the end and Aramis' heart hadn't recovered from losing his mama.

So he let Porthos see his worst self. His fiery temper. His sharp wit and quick tongue. But Porthos hadn't faltered. If anything, he had started trying harder to get through to him.

Then one night, two weeks into their new home, Aramis had dreamed of the day his mama died.

He'd fought back tears as he laid on his bottom bunk and refused to let himself cry. He hadn't cried since the night she died and wouldn't cry again.

Porthos had peeked down over the edge of his top bunk and then silently climbed down. He'd stretched out next to Aramis, laying shoulder to shoulder with him. For a long time they hadn't spoken, Porthos had just _been there_ , a solid presence at his side.

In the end, Porthos had just whispered one thing as dawn crept through the window.

" _You're only alone if you want to be."_

Then Porthos had climbed back up to his own bunk and been silent until wake up call.

Still, though, Aramis had fought it.

Porthos had been relentless, though, relentless with kindness, and loyalty, and brotherhood.

One night, three weeks after coming to the new home, Aramis had been laying awake, staring at the bunk above him with his backpack tucked between him and the wall. He had never been a good sleeper, and in the last two years of foster care he'd become nearly an insomniac. He'd gotten used to passing long, silent hours reading or drawing by flashlight.

He had been debating which to do that night when a head of curly black hair peeked over the edge of the upper bunk and blinked down at him.

" _Don't you ever sleep?"_

Aramis had scowled up at him and remained stubbornly silent. Porthos, as unbothered as he always was by Aramis' moods, had climbed down and stretched out next to him again. Aramis opened his mouth to tell the other boy to just leave him alone, but a confession came out instead.

" _I don't like to sleep. I don't like to dream."_

Porthos had taken the admission silently and after a moment, had started to whisper.

" _My mom died when I was four…"_ he'd begun. Then he'd talked well into the night, telling Aramis about growing up in the foster care system. Telling Aramis how he didn't know his father, the man had left before he was born, but maybe would like to one day. Telling Aramis how it was okay to hate someone and miss them too, even if you'd never known them.

Aramis had fallen asleep listening to Porthos talk that night. When he'd woken up the next morning, he'd found himself on his side, facing the wall. Porthos had been asleep behind him, snoring softly, back pressed against Aramis'.

And suddenly, alone hadn't sounded so good anymore. There was a fourteen-year-old boy offering friendship, offering brotherhood, offering family. All Aramis had to do was _stop_ fighting for once in his life. All he had to do was surrender and accept it.

So he did.

* * *

 _I look forward to exploring the earlier years of Aramis and Porthos' childhood one day. Hope you enjoyed this different little type of ficlet! More tomorrow!_


	28. Cathartic Shower or Bath

_So I went with the ModernAU for this one!_

 _Prompt: Cathartic Shower/Bath_

* * *

Porthos jogged up the stairs of their safe house, shifting his rifle to his left hand so he could dig into his right pocket for his key. He abandoned the search when the door opened at the top of the stairs, Athos framing the doorway and nodding in greeting.

"Where is he?" Porthos demanded, handing his weapon off to his teammate and searching the small flat with his gaze.

"He went into the bathroom ten minute ago. Said he needed a shower."

Porthos nodded, stripping off his outer jacket and striding towards the closed bathroom door. Once he reached it, he paused, taking a slow, calming breath.

"How did he seem?" Porthos asked over his shoulder to Athos.

Their third team member was still holding Porthos' rifle, his gaze uncertain in a way it had only ever been since they'd started trying to pick up the pieces of what happened in the Savoy Operation.

"Disconnected," Athos replied. "I tried to get him to open the door, but he wouldn't answer me."

Porthos nodded. Athos wouldn't force it. But Porthos wasn't Athos.

"First bloody mission back to active duty and it's a damned catastrophe," he muttered to himself. He just hoped Aramis hadn't spiraled too far too fast.

He focused his attention back on the door and lightly tapped his knuckles against it.

"'Mis…it's me. Open the door."

He could hear the shower running, but Aramis didn't answer him.

"Aramis, talk to me, brother."

Silence was his only reply.

"'Mis," Porthos tried the door and found it locked, so he reached into his pocket for his lockpicks, "I'm comin' in, alright?"

Seconds later he had the door unlocked and carefully eased it open. He glanced over his shoulder at Athos, who nodded once in encouragement, and then he stepped into the bathroom.

There was none of the expected steam from the too hot showers Aramis typically took. As Porthos looked around, he realized there was also no pile of clothes.

"'Mis?" he called carefully.

He could see the shadow of his brother behind the curtain. And could see Aramis' forearm braced against the wall beneath the shower head. The sleeve of Aramis' uniform was still bunched up and sloppily rolled to just above his elbow. He still wore the fingerless gloves he favored. Porthos could see the rusty redness of blood still staining Aramis' fingers, gloves and the skin of his arms.

"Aramis…"

Porthos slowly pulled the curtain aside and sighed.

Aramis was still in full combat gear, TAC vest, boots and all. He had leaned forward under the spray of the shower, letting it pelt into the back of his neck while his head hung low, chin nearly touching his chest. He didn't look up at the movement of the curtain, but his eyes were open, gaze fixed.

Porthos glanced down and saw the swirling of red circling the drain.

"Hey brother," Porthos greeted gently, reaching out to carefully touch Aramis' shoulder.

He drew his hand back sharply when he felt the icy cold spray of the water.

"Bloody hell!"

He latched onto Aramis' arm, forcing him back away from the cold water. He spun the dial to warm. Then did the only thing he could think of to shield Aramis from it while it heated. He stepped into the shower and let the water pelt into his own back instead. He wrapped his hands around Aramis' arms, relieved to see startled brown eyes looking up at him.

"'Mis…"

"It's not mine."

Porthos blinked.

"What?"

"It's not mine." Aramis said again, looking down at his hands. He'd brought them up to hover in the space between them. "It's not mine."

Porthos looked down at Aramis' hands, pale with blue tinged fingernails and covered in half washed blood.

"'Mis…" Porthos shook his head, reaching forward to fold Aramis' hands in his own. He expected them to be cold but was still shocked by how icy Aramis' skin was against his. "You did everything you could. You know that, right?"

Aramis was still staring down at their hands and Porthos worried he was in shock. He expected to hear him repeat the same phrase again.

Instead, when Aramis looked up, his gaze was alert and aware.

"I tried to save him. The asset, I tried to save him," he stated.

"I know you did," Porthos assured. He felt the water growing warm against his back.

"I couldn't," Aramis confessed, voice shaking.

"I know." Porthos squeezed the hands between his and then released them. He took hold of Aramis' biceps again, ducking his head to be sure and meet his eyes. "This wasn't your fault."

Aramis held his gaze, eyes wide and earnest. He didn't argue, but he didn't acknowledge the words either.

"Shit, 'Mis…I'm so sorry," Porthos breathed, finally just pulling his brother to him and wrapping him in a hug. "I'm so sorry this happened, but it wasn't your fault."

Aramis melted into the embrace, as he'd always done since they were children. He'd spent the first ten years of his life with a mother that loved him, that had never denied him physical affection. Porthos was convinced Aramis had been living in withdrawal since her death, always starved for touch, always yearning for it, never getting enough to fill the void she left behind.

Carefully, so they didn't lose their footing, Porthos turned them so that Aramis was back under the spray, the warm water soaking in and washing away the cold.

"I want to train to be a medic," Aramis stated into Porthos' shoulder.

Surprised, Porthos drew back, bracing a hand on the side of Aramis' neck so he could properly look him in the eyes.

"A medic?"

"I'm tired of having people dying on my watch and not knowing how to stop it."

"Aramis, this was not your fault."

"It might have changed things," Aramis insisted, ignoring the assurance. "If I had that training already, I might have been able to do something. I might have been able to help him." He held Porthos' gaze with moisture shining in his eyes. "I might have been able to help _them_." Aramis' voice broke on the final word and Porthos' heart broke with it.

He stepped closer again, wrapping Aramis back in a tight hug, tighter than the one before.

"That wasn't your fault either," he whispered.

Aramis didn't argue. He hadn't argued once any of the times he'd been told that since the Savoy Operation. But he didn't accept or acknowledge the words. Porthos knew that was because didn't believe them. That was okay. Porthos would keep telling him until he did.

* * *

 _I'll probably write my ModernAU Savoy fic one day. Until then, just know that this takes place mere months after that and while this wasn't exactly "cathartic" it was still a shower and I #dowhatiwant :P_

 _More tomorrow!_


	29. Bandaging Wounds

_Only a few more of these for last year's prompts! This one is meant to be a continuation of the earlier prompt "Self-Inflicted" it's been so long that you might want to go read that one again before reading this one! If you don't want to do that, the basic gist was that in their earlier days, less than a year after Savoy, Porthos was away and Athos got himself severely drunk, leaving Aramis (who is knee deep in some PTSD) to deal with it. The two parted on poor terms the following morning, which brings us here..._

 _Prompt: Bandaging Wounds_

* * *

Athos pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he made his way through the palace grounds. The frigid wind scraped his cheeks as he walked, but all he could do was pull his hat a bit lower over his eyes and soldier on.

Aramis was out here somewhere on patrol, Treville hadn't been specific, but then, he hadn't been trying to make it easy for Athos either.

* * *

" _I would like to join the first patrol on the palace grounds," Athos declared as he strode into Treville's office._

 _The captain looked up from the papers on his desk and arched a brow._

" _That's interesting, considering that patrol reported for duty half an hour ago." Treville looked him over, then, eyes critical._

 _Athos stood up a bit straighter, suddenly conscious of every wrinkle in his clothes and the sickly pallor of his skin._

" _Aramis said you'd taken ill."_

" _I had, but I'm …better now," Athos replied lamely._

 _Treville nodded slowly._

" _I don't suppose you know why he was in here at dawn asking for a place on the first patrol."_

 _Athos remained stoically silent, though his heart clenched._

" _Or why he looked as if he'd seen a ghost."_

 _Athos closed his eyes and sighed. More likely, twenty ghosts._

" _Anything I should be made aware of, Athos?" Treville questioned firmly._

" _No, sir," Athos replied. He would fix it. "I would like to join the first patrol on the palace grounds," he requested again._

 _Treville nodded._

" _Granted. I don't know what area he took, but he favors the gardens."_

 _Athos nodded sharply and turned on his heel, striding out of the room._

* * *

Athos turned the corner of another hedge in the gardens, eyes searching. Snow softly drifted down around him, and he could feel the chill seeping into his bones.

Aramis had been out here for an hour already and he was prone to chills these days.

Athos turned another corner and froze.

Finally.

Aramis was there, not less than twenty feet away, one gloved hand braced on a stone statue and the other clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. His head was down, eyes closed and there was something too strained about the way his shoulders were rising and falling with his breaths.

"Aramis," Athos called out carefully, having learned enough about his brother's struggle towards recovery over the last year to know that startling him was dangerous for all involved.

Aramis' head snapped up and around, dark eyes blinking at him in surprise. Aramis straightened, dropping his hand from the statue and stiffening to his full height.

"You shouldn't be here," the marksman offered by way of greeting.

"Neither should you," Athos pointed out mildly as he slowly meandered across the distance between them.

Aramis chuckled.

"It's just a bit of snow, Athos," he pointed out. But then something dark and haunted stole across his eyes and the marksman looked away. "It's just snow," he said again, but this time in a fervent whisper as if trying to convince himself of it.

"Aramis," Athos entreated gently.

"You shouldn't be here," Aramis accused again.

"Where else should I be?" Athos challenged.

"I don't know, crawling through the bottom of another bottle of wine, perhaps?"

Athos winced, but saw regret steal across Aramis' expression the moment the words left his mouth, so he didn't take it to heart.

"I'm sorry," Aramis offered a moment later. "That was uncalled for."

"I think, perhaps it was more deserved than I would like to admit," Athos replied with a slight tilt of his head. "And I know that its I who owe _you_ an apology, not the other way around."

Aramis grimaced and refused to meet his eyes.

"Aramis," Athos stepped closer, reaching out to grip his brother's shoulder, "I'm sorry for the burden I've been to you."

Aramis' head snapped back around, eyes wide.

"You're not a burden, Athos."

"I am," Athos argued wryly.

Aramis shrugged a little.

"I don't mind it," he assured quietly. "Truly, Athos. Today, I just…I overreacted."

Athos hated himself all over again.

"No," he denied sharply. Then more gently, "No, my brother, you did not."

He watched Aramis' profile for a moment, wishing he could force the man to meet his eyes again. But Aramis was distracted by something off to his left, a shifting in the shadows.

"I have failed you, Aramis," Athos realized suddenly.

His brother grimaced a little and tore his attention away from the shadows.

"You haven't…"

"I have," Athos interrupted firmly. "But no more," he promised. "I swear it to you."

But instead of looking comforted, Aramis just looked frustrated.

"I'm not made of glass, Athos," he retorted.

"Yes, you seem intent on proving that," Athos shot back sharply.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aramis snapped.

"Why else are you out here, right now, unless to prove something. There are plenty of other duties, you _requested_ this one, the one that you knew would…"

"Would what?" Aramis cut in. "Would break me? I'm not _broken_ , Athos. I can handle this. I can handle a bit of snow. I can handle…" he gestured sharply at some shadow off to the left, but abruptly trailed off. Perhaps he had realized Athos could not see whatever it was that Aramis' mind had conjured there.

"Aramis, you don't have to…" Athos tried to break in, but Aramis appeared suddenly overwhelmingly frustrated.

"I _do!_ " he snapped angrily. "I can't _live_ like this anymore. A soldier who can't walk through the snow or sleep amongst the trees? What use am I like that? I have to learn to handle this!"

"But not alone, Aramis," Athos pointed out calmly.

"Well Porthos isn't here."

"I am."

"You have your own demons to deal with."

"So you can shoulder the burden of my troubles, but I cannot shoulder the burden of yours?" Athos challenged.

Aramis made a face at him, but didn't respond. Athos took a breath, stepping to stand directly in front of his brother and taking a moment to be sure he crafted his response carefully.

"I am a selfish man, Aramis. It is one of my many character faults. It is in that selfishness that I had let myself be lost in my own troubles and become blind to yours." Athos offered his brother a slight smile. "You, my brother, are a _selfless_ man. You would sooner bear the troubles of all of those around you than let any man think he walks alone. But in this, you bear _your_ greatest fault. Because you would sooner let yourself crumble beneath the weight of your own burdens than let anyone help you bear them."

Aramis rolled his eyes, but didn't try to deny the truth of the gentle accusation.

"You do not walk this path alone, brother. I walk beside you and so does Porthos. I should not have let you forget that." He leaned his head a little to catch Aramis' eyes. "I'm sorry that I did."

Aramis' gaze softened and Athos knew he had been forgiven.

"Now, I won't promise you I won't end up drunk in a tavern again. But I do hope you won't, in fact, leave me there."

"It's crossed my mind," Aramis teased.

Athos gave him a mocking glare and went on, "But I will promise you that I will not leave you alone with your burdens again, as you have never left me alone with mine."

Aramis searched his gaze quietly for several silent moments, weighing the truth of Athos words, before finally nodding once in acceptance.

"Good," Athos smiled. "Now, come on. Let's face the snow together, shall we?"

* * *

 _With the way things were left in "Self-Inflicted" it was begging for a continuation where things were resolved between Athos and Aramis, at least somewhat. So here we are :) See you tomorrow for one of my favorites thus far ;)_


	30. Shoulder to Cry On

_Okay, so this one ended up being one of my favorites so far. It's ModernAU (shocking, I know, it's not like I'm obsessed with that lately or anything) but it's also set back when Aramis and Porthos were teenagers._

 _Prompt: Shoulder to Cry On_

* * *

"Closing the home?" Porthos repeated in shock. He stared across the dining room table at Adam Jennings, his social worker, hardly believing he had heard him correctly.

"Yes, Porthos, with Mr. Matthews illness, we'll be moving all of the children to new homes by the end of the week."

Porthos felt something like panic rising in his chest. He looked to the door and the living room beyond it where he knew Aramis was meeting with his own social worker.

"But the same home? Right? They'll move us all together?"

His case worker gave him a patient smile.

"Porthos, there are seven children here. There aren't any other group homes with enough open beds."

 _No, no, no…_

"We've already found placements for everyone. We're keeping Jacob and Anna together, since they're siblings, but the rest of you have new placements throughout the city."

 _NO, NO, NO…_

"But me and Aramis…you found us a place together," Porthos demanded. He and Aramis were like brothers, _were_ brothers.

"Porthos…" Adam started gently. "You're sixteen with a juvenile record. Aramis is fourteen with a history of violent behavior…placing you together again was never going to be possible. The only reason we put you both here was because Mr. Matthews specializes in troubled cases."

Porthos bit his lip, eyes stinging. He was used to being called 'troubled', it had been a label used with him since he did his second short stint in juvie at thirteen years old. But Aramis? Aramis was the kindest person Porthos had ever met.

"Aramis isn't violent," he insisted around the lump forming rapidly in his throat. "He doesn't like bullies, but he's not been in a fight since he came here!"

"Aramis isn't my responsibility, Porthos. You are. I found the best placement for _you_ that I could."

"But I want to stay with Aramis. I don't care if its not what's best for me!"

"I do care, Porthos."

"No you don't! If you did, you wouldn't be splitting us up," Porthos spat.

Adam sighed patiently.

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but this is what's happening."

Porthos could only stare, open mouthed as Adam packed up his briefcase. The social worker was young, barely even thirty, but he'd been handling Porthos' case for almost seven years now. Porthos knew he cared. He'd only ever done what was best for Porthos until now.

Adam stood from the table but then hesitated.

"I tried Porthos. I argued for finding a place for both of you. Mr. Matthews tried too."

"Then why didn't you?"

Adam let out a breath.

"Aramis' case worker didn't think it was best."

Porthos braced his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. He felt Adam squeeze his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. I'll be back for you on Friday, okay?"

Porthos could only nod. His voice had gotten lost somewhere in his throat, lodged right along with his heart.

He heard Adam leave and for several moments could only stare at the scuffed, handmade wooden table.

Aramis. He needed to find Aramis.

* * *

Aramis absorbed the information about the home closing with a silent frown. He'd been here two years, his longest placement yet. He liked it here. He had Porthos and Mr. Matthews, though firm, was kind and seemed to care about them.

"Can I go with Porthos?" he asked eventually when his case worker, Mary Allison, just sat and quietly stared at him after delivering the news.

"No."

"But why not?" Aramis demanded. "I've done what you wanted. I've stayed out of trouble."

"Aramis, this isn't open for discussion. I've found you a placement that is used to dealing with troubled cases."

Aramis frowned.

"I'm not 'troubled'."

Ms. Allison just arched a doubtful eyebrow. She had treated him like a delinquent since she'd taken over his case three years ago. He'd given up trying to convince her otherwise.

"Where's Porthos going?"

"I can't tell you information about other children, you know that."

"So you don't even know," Aramis surmised with a glare. "Why can't we just stay together?"

"He ages out of the system in two years. You still have four more. There's no point, Aramis. It won't matter."

Aramis felt a lump rise into his throat.

"It matters to me," he pointed out quietly.

"Aramis, you've limited your options with your behavior since you came into the system. You were kicked out of four homes for fighting, one for stealing from the foster parent, ran away from two others, and were removed from two more for 'incompatibility' reasons."

Aramis sat back on the couch, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie with a scowl.

"You ever consider you're just bad at placing me?" he muttered.

"This is your fault, Aramis, not mine. If you had done better before now, placing you wouldn't be such an issue."

Aramis sunk his teeth into the inside of his bottom lip to keep the scathing words that rose in his throat at bay. Instead, he was frustrated to feel moisture pricking in his eyes.

"I'll be back for you tomorrow," Ms. Allison stated, rising from her chair.

"You said the home was closing at the end of the week," he protested.

"I've got other obligations later this week. I'm moving you tomorrow."

"But…"

"Tomorrow, Aramis."

Then she walked out the door. Aramis stared after her, throat tightening.

This couldn't be happening.

He heard the low rumble of Porthos and his case worker talking in the dining room. Porthos sounded upset, Aramis could hear it in his tone, even if he couldn't make out his words.

He was losing Porthos. Just like he had lost his mom.

Suddenly, the room felt too small. He couldn't breathe in here. Aramis vaulted from the couch and out the front door. He ran to the far end of the porch, climbed onto the railing and reached for the edge of the porch roof. A small jump and he was able to pull himself up. After that, it was a short drain pipe journey to the roof above the second floor. There, he collapsed onto his back, gasping like he'd run a marathon. The sun was bright and blinding so Aramis reached up, pulling his hood over his head and down to cover his eyes. When his eyes still stung and watered, Aramis grudgingly admitted it had nothing to do with the sun. He crossed his arms over his face anyway and pretended it did.

* * *

Porthos checked their bunk room first, but Aramis' bed was empty. Next, he checked the backyard. Aramis liked to climb the trees back there, much to Porthos' heart stopping horror. When he didn't find him there, Porthos knew there was only one more option. He shaded his eyes and stared up at the roof. Aramis always said he liked having a clear line of sight around the neighborhood.

"You better be up there, 'Mis," he muttered to himself as he started the climb. Aramis could get up there half a dozen different ways, but Porthos liked to use the drain pipe on the back corner of the house. It was sturdy and straight forward in execution.

He was breathing hard by the time he made it up to the top and took a moment to rest before starting his search. When he felt like his lungs had caught up, Porthos carefully started for the top of the roof, he couldn't see Aramis on this side, so he must be on the front side.

If he was up here at all.

Porthos hooked his hands on the top ridge and swung a leg over to straddle it.

He could see Aramis only a few feet away, on his back, arms crossed over his face.

Porthos blew out a relieved breath and carefully swung his other leg over, sliding down the roof on his butt until he was next to his brother.

"It won't be so bad. We can still see each other after school and on weekends," he began cheerfully.

Aramis didn't answer, but his arms tightened around his head.

"Come on, 'Mis. Don't hide from me, not now, okay?" Porthos bit his lip when his eyes started stinging. "I don't want this either," he confessed. "I begged Adam to put us together. He said it was done, that there was nothing to do for it now."

Aramis gave no response.

"Aramis…" Porthos coaxed, "it'll be okay. You'll see."

"No, it won't and it's my fault," Aramis confessed abruptly into his arms.

Porthos frowned deeply.

"What? Why would you say that?"

Aramis went silent again save for a hitched breath.

"Aramis." Porthos reached out now, pulling at Aramis' arms until the other boy uncrossed them.

Aramis' face was half shadowed by his hood, but Porthos could clearly see the tracks of moisture snaking down into Aramis' unruly hair. Aramis pulled an arm free from Porthos' grip to drag across his face and then turned his head away.

"Don't hide from me," Porthos pleaded. "Sit up, 'Mis. Talk to me. Why would you say this is your fault?"

Porthos pulled on Aramis' arms again, this time urging him to sit up. Aramis allowed himself to be hauled upward, but immediately bent his knees up, braced his elbows and buried his head in his hands, eyes squeezed closed.

"This isn't your fault," Porthos tried. "Mr. Matthews got sick. He just can't take care of us anymore. You had nothing to do with that."

"Not that," Aramis muttered miserably, finally lifting his head, but not looking at Porthos. "The reason we can't get placed together. It's my fault because of the fights at the homes before."

"Who told you that?" Porthos demanded.

"Ms. Allison. She said I have to go somewhere for troubled kids."

"You're not troubled," Porthos snapped, feeling a wave of anger for Aramis' case worker. The woman didn't have a kind bone in her body. Aramis was always withdrawn and off kilter for hours after meetings with her.

"Porthos, I had _nine_ different placements before here. _Nine_ , in two years. That's paints a pretty obvious picture."

"We've been here two years and you've not gotten in trouble once."

Aramis gave him a sidelong look.

"Okay, not _real_ trouble," Porthos amended.

Aramis sighed and looked away.

"This isn't your fault, Aramis. Your shitty case worker is wrong."

"Maybe. But that doesn't change anything. They're still splitting us up. She's taking me away tomorrow."

Porthos felt the color drain from his face.

"But we have until the end of the week."

"She has 'other obligations'," Aramis explained, mocking her voice as best he could.

Porthos felt a fresh stinging in his eyes and had to look away. He thought they'd have more time.

"She said it didn't matter. That you age out in two years anyway."

Porthos looked back at Aramis' profile and watched a silent tear track down Aramis' face, unacknowledged.

"Aramis," Porthos started firmly, "this doesn't change anything."

"Porthos, it changes everything," Aramis argued, voice breaking. He swiped angrily at his cheeks with his sleeve and looked away again.

"We'll still be brothers, 'Mis."

"No, we won't," Aramis snapped, turning back sharply to face him. Porthos was eerily reminded of this same boy arguing against the same idea across the dining room table two years ago. "We're going to new homes, Porthos. You'll have a new life, with a new school, and new friends."

Porthos wanted to snap back at him. To point out that Aramis would have all the same new things too. But he didn't. Because Aramis wouldn't. Aramis would retreat back behind the same walls he'd been hiding behind when they met. He wouldn't make new friends. He wouldn't make a new life. He would just put his head down and survive until he aged out of the system.

But that thought wasn't what hurt Porthos the most.

"You think I would just leave you behind and forget about you?" he asked quietly. "You think I _could_?"

Aramis just shook his head in frustration and looked away again. Porthos felt a wave of helpless anger flow through him. Aramis had been so afraid when they met, afraid of losing anyone else the way he'd lost his mom, the way he'd lost the brother and sister who abandoned him.

"I'm not like Vincent and Sabine," Porthos stated. "I won't leave you behind."

Aramis didn't acknowledge the words.

"We're family, you and I. That won't ever change," Porthos promised. "We'll see each other when we can and in two years, when I age out, I'll get a place near where you live and I'll wait for you. When you turn eighteen, we can leave or stay or whatever you want. But we'll do it together."

Aramis' head dropped, shadowing his features with his hood, but Porthos could see him biting hard on his lower lip.

"Do you believe me, 'Mis?" Porthos asked quietly.

Aramis didn't answer, but Porthos watched another silent tear slide down the side of his jaw.

Porthos sighed and shifted closer, draping an arm over Aramis' shoulders. The other boy all but belted into his side.

"That's alright, brother…I'll believe enough for both of us."

* * *

 _So this one made me feel all sorts of sad things while I was writing it. Those of you that have been following these little ficlets and read the other ModernAU pieces so far (btw, I need a name for that ModernAU - ideas?) know what happened to Aramis at his next group home and that makes it even sadder._

 _I love Porthos, btw, and he's amazing and the best brother anyone could ever have._


	31. Tucked In

_Last one for LAST year's prompts hahaha Finally! In literally just a shade under a year!_

 _Prompt:Tucked In_

* * *

"I love her!" D'Artangan crowed cheerfully, wheeling around in a circle with arms out spread.

Aramis ducked under an elbow that nearly took out his eye, and slid up to the younger man's side, anchoring him as d'Artagnan swayed precariously.

"That's wonderful," Aramis placated, patting d'Artagnan on the chest and pulling him towards the tavern door. He touched two fingers to his hat and offered Porthos a salute in farewell. The larger man returned the gesture and refocused on the cards in his hand. He'd volunteered to stay behind and collect Athos when the man was done drinking himself into oblivion. That left Aramis to get d'Artagnan home to the Garrison safely.

"Aramis, isn't she just the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?" d'Artagnan commented happily as Aramis guided the young man's stumbling steps away from the tavern.

"I've found it best not to compare the beauty of one woman to the next. Each woman is unique and beautiful in their own ways," Aramis replied thoughtfully.

"But Constanance…"

"You mean, Constance?"

"Yes, Constanance is the uniquest and most beautifulest of them all, don't you think?"

"I think Constance is an intelligent, brave, and beautiful woman," Aramis agreed.

Aramis had grown quite fond of the witty, sharp tongued young woman that had so effectively stolen d'Artagnan's heart. They'd forged a bond after the mess with Marsac. She had seen him, seen _through_ him, when everyone else had been content to leave him to his own devices. She'd seen that he was crumbling under the weight of those fateful days and the choices they had brought. She could have ignored it, accepted that Aramis was not her problem to deal with.

But she hadn't.

She had sought him out instead. He'd told her everything and she had listened. Then she had wrapped him in the tightest, warmest hug he'd received in a very long time, one that had rivaled even Porthos' best. She'd looked him in the eye and refused to let him crumble. She'd shielded him, even from his own brothers, when he'd desperately needed someone in his corner. She'd been his confidant when it seemed no one else could be bothered. She'd been a friend when he had felt so utterly alone.

It was through the friendship they'd built that he had grown confident that she was more than worthy of d'Artagnan's affections.

"I want to see her," d'Artagnan decided suddenly. "I want to see my Constanance!"

"You can't right now," Aramis denied.

"Why not?" the boy pouted miserably.

"Well, for one, you're quite drunk and she is far too sensible to find it charming. And two, you can't even pronounce her name correctly at the moment and so I'm saving you from making an absolute fool of yourself."

"You're the best, Aramis. The absolutest bestestest brother there ever was."

"That's kind of you. I'll remind you that you said that when you're sick and miserable in the morning."

d'Artagnan grinned goofily, plodding along merrily next to Aramis.

"Hey 'Mis…Arrrrraaaaamisssss. Aramis…did you know your name is strange?"

"This from _you_? I find that funny," Aramis replied with a grin.

"No…not because of how to say it. It's fun to say. Arrrraaamissss."

"I'm so glad it amuses you." Aramis said a silent prayer of thanks when the Garrison gates came into view.

"Because that's it…that's all there is," d'Artagnan went on. "You've got me…Charles d'argnanan…"

"d'Artagnan," Aramis corrected patiently.

"Then Athos de la faaa—de la furrr - de la furrrrr."

"De la Fare," Aramis provided.

"Yes, then Porthos DuValleyon.

"DuVallon," Aramis interjected.

"You've got all of us, with two names. But you just have the one."

d'Artagnan held up one finger to Aramis' face, to make his point more strongly. Aramis batted the finger away and walked them through the gate, angling immediately for the stairs up to the second-floor barracks.

"Don't you have a family, Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked innocently a moment before tripping over a stair. Aramis barely kept them both from receiving a face full of wood.

"Of course I do. Athos and Porthos are my family, and _you_."

"No, no, no…a _real_ family. A family with a name."

Aramis sighed and pushed open their bunk room door with his boot.

"This is the only family I've got. And they _have_ a name – the Musketeers."

d'Artagnan sat heavily on the bed Aramis steered him to and then blinked up at him with wide eyes.

"Your name is Aramis Musketeers?"

Aramis snorted and shook his head, pushing d'Artagnan back to lay down. When the boy was settled, Aramis started pulling at his boots.

"No. That's not my name."

"Then what is it?" the younger man asked curiously.

Aramis tossed d'Artagnan's boots under the bed and crouched next to the boy's head.

"There was a time when I was called René d'Herblay," Aramis revealed. "But I hated that name."

d'Artagnan's nose wrinkled.

"Doesn't suit you."

Aramis grinned.

"I didn't think so either."

"So, what is it?" d'Artagnan asked, settling deeper against the mattress and pillow. Aramis reached to pull the blanket over him. "Wha's your real name?"

"I'm just Aramis," he answered decisively.

d'Artagnan frowned, blinking slowly as his eyes grew heavy.

"But you had a mother," he stated. "Ev'n if you hated y'r father…you had a mum. She had a name."

Aramis watched the younger man fight against the pull of sleep, eyes fixed on Aramis as he waited for an answer.

"De la Cruz," he revealed with a sigh. "Her name was Esperanza de la Cruz."

"De la Cruz," d'Artagnan repeated sleepily, closing his eyes. "Aramis de la Cruz…"

"No," Aramis denied. "Just Aramis."

He loved his mother and would like nothing more than to carry her name, but he couldn't.

d'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open again, meeting Aramis' unerringly despite the slight glaze over them.

"I don't care if your Spanish," d'Artagnan whispered, eyes heartbreakingly sincere.

"Then you, my brother, are numbered amongst an increasingly precious few."

The younger man's eyes misted, and he let out a shuddering sigh.

"That's sad."

"Go to sleep, d'Artagnan," Aramis instructed, pulling the blanket up more securely around the boy. "You won't be sad when you wake up." Because if Aramis was lucky, d'Artagnan wouldn't remember any of this.

"Okay," the younger man breathed out, letting his eyes fall closed. A moment later his breathing evened out and his expression relaxed.

Aramis blew out a deep breath and stood to retrieve a chair, ready to settle in for a long night of monitoring d'Artagnan's breathing. He didn't think the boy had taken his drinking as far as Athos often did, but being the skinny thing he was, Aramis wasn't taking any chances.

He spent the next few hours, until Porthos slipped into the room, contemplating the names d'Herblay and de la Cruz and how it was possible to belong to both, but also neither all at the same time. And what exactly it meant to belong to no one.

* * *

 _My hand slipped and that got kind of angsty...whoops. So, instead of locking myself into another 31 of these prompts for this year's whumptober, I'm going to focus back on some other stuff. Like the ModernAU oneshot compilation I want to do. I have so many stories to tell with that (in case you didn't notice those ficlets here were almost always longer than the rest) and working on my next long fics. For those of you that don't know, I work in two fandoms. And so it's not just 31 prompts, but 62 and it is super time consuming haha. but that doesn't mean I won't use some of the prompts in other ways ;)_

 _Thanks for sticking with me for a year to get through all of these! I told you I'd finish them! Later gators!_


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